PS 


.0313 

A9 

1897a 

,  1 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00018582838 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 

DATE 

DUE                             RET" 

DATE                            RET 
DUE 

JUN11 

200i 

9-lH-o[ 

■ 

NOV    '     ;. 

=IB  U  2  ZU 

t 

MAY  ( 

3.r,f,. 

t        ,- 

- 

'-^    I 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/auntdicestoryoffOOrobi 


AUNT  DICE: 


;  i 


Zhe  5ior\>  of  a  jfaitbtul  Slave* 

H 

.6* 


■  \ 


NINA  HILL  ROBINSON. 


< 


THF  UNW£^~:  rv  -""  - '"''^"fH  CAROLINA 


Nashville,  Tenx.: 

Publishing  House  of  the  M.  E.  Church,  South. 

Barbee  &  Smith,  Agents. 

1S97 


( 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  i&ff, 

By  Nina  Hill  Robinson, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


(3) 


O 

o 


PREFACE. 

In  this  little  work  the  author  has  preferred  to  fol- 
low the  simple  truth,  feeling  all  interweaving'  of  fiction 
to  be  out  of  keeping  with  the  character  of  whom  she 
has  written.  Beyond  the  use  of  a  story-teller's  license, 
sparingly  indulged  in,  this  story  is  strictly  true. 

As  the  details  of  everyday  life  would  prove  monot- 
onous to  the  reader,  the  writer  has  given  but  little 
more  than  the  outlines  of  the  life  of  this  beloved  serv- 
ant ;  and  though  a  short  work — only  a  recreative  hour 
for  the  busy  American — a  simple  story  simply  told,  it 
is  written  as  a  tribute  to  the  memorv  of  one  who  was 
faithful  in  all  her  ways,  with  the  hope  that  her  name 
may  be  honored  and  remembered. 

It  is  known  that  the  speech  of  the  Tennessee  negro 
differs  slightly  from  his  extreme  southern  kinsman. 
Aunt  Dice  was  free  from  many  of  the  stumblings  or 
more  uncouth  forms  of  the  negro  dialect.  The  word 
"  master  "  she  used  with  an  "o"  sound,  as  in  "  mostcr." 
Her  way  was  her  own  ;   she  borrowed  no  form. 

In  conclusion,  need  it  be  said  that  it  is  yet  the  hope 
and  desire  of  the  Family  to  remove  the  sacred  dust  of 
this  honored  servant  to  her  chosen  place  of  burial, 
where  Caesar  sleeps  and  the  Candlesticks  bloom  ? 

(5) 


AUNT  DICE: 

£be  Ston?  of  a  tfaitbful  slave. 


CHAPTER  I. 


HERE  are  large  possibilities  to  men  of  ad- 
vantages. Material  help  is  a  needful  step- 
ping-stone to  greater  things.  A  cultured 
faith  in  a  higher  life  aids  much  toward  the  upbuild- 
ing- of  true  worth  and  character. 

But  to  the  unlearned,  whose  rude  surroundings 
hold  no  uplifting  element,  to  whom  all  books  are 
forever  sealed  —  their  lettering  unmeaning  hiero- 
glyphics— what  is  the  inspiration  to  be  faithful, 
to  live  uprightly?  What  is  the  stimulus  to  noble 
living  and  well-doing  in  the  kitchens  of  the  igno- 
rant? 

Of  such  a  one  I  write  ;  nay,  more  than  this :  born 
a  slave,  she  called  nothing  on  earth  her  own.  Un- 
tutored, save  in  the  monotonous  drudgery  of  work, 
she  found  only  one  help  in  her  way — the  simple 
story  of  the  cross,  sung  in  many  a  southern  kitchen  ; 
the  cross  that  uplifts  wherever  its  blessed  shadow 
falls. 

Of  her  simple,  rugged  life  no  poem  need  be 
woven,  though  other  lives  of  lesser  merit  have 
found  a  way  into  prose  or  rhyme;   but  from  oft- 

(<) 


8  aunt  dice: 

repeated  tales,  the  picked-up  relics  of  her  deeds 
and  sayings,  the  story  of  her  life  may  at  least  prove 
her  memory  wholesome. 

Neither  can  be  told  of  her  any  great  achievement 
or  heroic  action,  for  she  had  read  no  Psalm  of 
Life,  no  Book  of  Golden  Deeds;  but  only  one  of 
humble  plodding  in  the  way  of  duty — the  only  duty 
she  saw  plainly  before  her,  that  of  faithfulness. 

The  neighboring"  slave  owners  of  South  Afton 
were  curious  when  it  was  learned  that  William 
Macy  had  purchased  the  negress  Dice.  Men  of 
standing  these  were,  in  a  well-to-do  neighborhood; 
of  plethoric  purses,  of  broad  acres,  and  crowded 
negro  quarters;  men  who  understood  as  well  the 
requisites  of  negro  barter,  the  buying  and  selling 
prices,  as  they  were  familiar  with  the  good  points 
of  their  best  horses.  So  the  surprise  was  great 
when  a  generous  sum  was  paid  for  the  negress  by 
the  owner  of  Riverside,  known  to  be  a  wise  and 
cautious  dealer,  who  for  once  overlooked  the  fact 
of  her  thirty-four  years,  her  delicate  frame,  her 
deficiency  in  bone,  muscle,  and  flesh. 

It  was  talked  of  at  the  river  mills,  the  cotton 
gin,  and  the  stillhouse  among  the  hills,  where  men 
grouped  on  Saturday  afternoons  to  discuss  the  lat- 
est Whig  news,  the  prices  of  negroes  and  cotton, 
or  the  relative  value  of  their  own  prime  whiskies 
or  peach  brandies. 

But  the  question  was  settled  at  last  by  a  quiet 
answer:  "  I  bought  her  to  raise  my  children." 
Perhaps  the  wise  owner  looked  farther  than  bone 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.  9 

or  muscle  in  the  purchase  of  one  to  whom  he  could 
trust  his  children.  Hired  to  him  for  two  years 
previous,  he  had  found  her  trustworthiness  alone 
sufficient  to  uphold  him  in  the  sum  paid  for  her. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  eighteen  hundred  and 
thirty-four  (for  she  came  in  with  the  century)  that 
Aunt  Dice,  with  her  two  children,  was  removed 
from  a  thinly-settled  district  twenty  miles  distant, 
and  installed  as  chief  cook  and  general  superin- 
tendent at  Riverside  plantation.  Beyond  her  kin- 
ship to  Uncle  Amos,  the  most  trusty  and  best  be- 
loved of  the  slaves  at  Riverside,  little  was  known 
of  her  or  hers,  save  that  her  mother  was  an  excel- 
lent servant — a  pioneer  negress  of  Middle  Tennes- 
see, brought  from  Virginia  to  the  old  Nashville 
Fort,  in  the  perilous  days  of  Indian  warfare.  Her 
one  other  recommendation  was  that  she  was  reared 
"  in  the  house,"  an  important  element  in  the  pur- 
chase or  sale  of  a  negress:  a  raw  "field  hand" 
occupied  no  enviable  position  beside  the  superior 
house  girl:  though  in  her  case  this  did  not  greatly 
add  to  her  value,  as,  orphaned  in  earlv  infancy,  she 
was  brought  up  amid  surroundings  so  rude  and 
uncouth  that  the  wonder  wjxs  that  her  thirty-four 
years  had  found  her  true  and  worthy. 

Concerning  her  own  private  griefs  or  wrongs 
Aunt  Dice,  as  she  was  called,  was  strangely  reti- 
cent. If  a  burden  were  hers  to  shoulder,  she  pre- 
ferred to  bear  it  proudly  alone.  It  was  only  after 
years  of  intimacy  that  her  new  mistress,  who  deli- 
cately forbore  to  question  her,  learned   that  her 


IO  aunt  dice: 

former  master  kept  an  inn  or  hostelry  noted  for  its 
drunken  revelry  and  riotous  living,  where  travelers 
passed  the  night  on  their  way  to  the  "  far  west  "  ; 
where  negroes  were  bought  and  sold,  or  gambled 
away;  a  home  upon  which  civilization  had  hardly 
turned  its  light,  or  religion  its  morals. 

"  My  mistis  was  a  good  ?oman,"  Aunt  Dice  had 
said.  Perhaps  the  influence  of  this  one  "good 
'oman"  had  much  to  do  toward  the  shaping  of 
her  character;  if  so,  then  indeed  the  hard,  bare 
existence  of  this  "  mistis  "  was  not  passed  in  vain. 

There  were  few  places  on  the  river  so  pleasantly 
situated  as  Riverside  plantation.  Commanding  a 
high  and  wide  outlook,  the  farmhouse,  with  its 
painted  whiteness,  its  airy  rooms,  and  cool,  wide 
galleries,  looked  inviting  enough  through  the  sur- 
rounding  maple  grove  and  silver  poplars.  A  green 
lawn,  ornamented  with  old-fashioned  hedges  of  li- 
lacs and  pink  crepe  myrtles,  sloped  from  the  steep 
bluff  overlooking  the  river  to  the  great  double  gate 
leading  to  the  graveled  drive  by  the  water's  edge. 
Beyond  the  house,  and  farther  up  the  river's  side, 
were  the  negro  quarters — a  long  row  of  log  cab- 
ins with  double  chimneys,  and  gardens  attached. 
There  was  the  "loom  house,"  where  the  spinning 
and  weaving  were  done.  The  cotton  house  stood 
near  the  great,  wide  barns,  and  the  "  shop,"  with 
its  charcoal  forge.  Across  the  "big  branch,"  and 
still  farther  up  the  heights,  was  the  family  cemete- 
ry, solemn  with  its  waving  cedars  and  white  marble 
stones. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      II 

There  were  broad  bottom  fields  skirting  the  riv- 
er's  edge;  rolling  uplands  sweeping  out  to  the  dis- 
tant hills,  where  the  swine  were  fattened  yearly; 
thence  onward  to  the  Barrens,  where  the  cattle 
grazed.  Lucky  the  farmer  who  owned  an  outlet 
to  the  Barrens — a  wild,  almost  unsettled  country, 
rich  only  in  native  grass  and  cool  springs. 

A  fair  domain  it  was,  set  like  a  jewel  within  Ten- 
nessean  hills,  fairer  for  its  romantic  scenery,  its 
native  wilds;  dearer  for  its  crowning  grace  of 
southern  life  and  cheer,  which,  alas !  is  but  a 
memory.  The  palmy  days  of  Riverside  have  de- 
parted with  the  changing  times;  but  the  river 
that  swept  around  the  old  homestead,  whose  blue 
waters  silvered  in  the  sunshine  and  deepened  in 
the  shade,  laughing  over  rocky  shoals  and  silent 
by  the  high,  still  cliffs — the  river  of  "ye  olden" 
days — is  still  the  same  beautiful,  lovely  South 
Afton. 


CHAPTER  II. 


T  must  be  said  that  the  whole  plantation  pros- 
pered under  the  steady  rule  of  Aunt  Dice. 
No  sooner  was  she  domiciled  by  her  broad 
cabin  hearth  than  she  began  to  enlarge  her  bor- 
ders. Her  two  years'  experience  as  a  hired  un- 
derling held  her  in  good  stead:  she  understood 
her  master's  needs,  the  merits  and  demerits  of  his 
slaves.  Her  second  coming  was  an  era  of  greater 
importance.  The  negroes,  from  venerable  Uncle 
Amos  to  the  smallest  pickaninny,  realized  that  she 
held  a  certain  amount  of  power — how  much,  she 
herself  did  not  stop  to  question;  she  only  knew 
that  she  was  grateful  to  a  kind  master,  and  she 
proved  her  gatitude  with  the  remainder  of  her  long 
life.  For  her,  too,  the  change  was  wholesome; 
whether  from  her  comfortable  surroundings,  or  the 
kindly  treatment  of  a  new  and  much-loved  master, 
it  is  hard  to  say,  but  certain  it  was  that  the  frail, 
sickly  negress  gained  new  strength  as  the  years 
passed  on,  until  the  neighboring  slave  owners  re- 
luctantly acknowledged  her  "  the  likeliest  nigger  on 
the  whole  creek."  Certainly  she  was  the  hardest 
worker:  she  often  said  there  was  not  a  lazy  bone  in 
all  her  body.  Not  only  did  she  help  to  tend  and 
rear  the  children,  but  she  was  the  ruling  spirit  of  all 
the  "  hum  and  hustle  "  of  each  busv  dav.  Her  first 
(12) 


i«trf»in  it!   fii-»m'^_._i  . 


THE   STORY  OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  1 3 

duty  was  to  sound  the  long,  wild  call  of  the  hunt- 
ing horn  from  the  back  gallery,  and  dole  out  to  the 
slaves  their  morning  "  drams"  from  the  rum  bar- 
rels in  the  cellar  before  the  day's  work  began. 

It  was  here  that  she  commenced  her  discipline. 
The  long  row  of  rollicking  laborers  filing  up  the 
path  from  the  quarters  hastened  to  a  quickstep 
under  her  searching  glance.  Not  that  she  disap- 
proved of  merriment.  "Light  hearts  make  light 
work"  was  a  proverb  at  Riverside.  But  she  re- 
ceived no  laggards  at  her  early  drink  offerings. 
Uncle  Jack  knew  to  a  nicety  how  long  to  hold 
his  inverted  position,  his  usual  obeisance  to  his 
morning  dram.  Aunt  Dice  heard  complacently 
the  rhythmic  "pitapat"  of  merry  feet,  the  back- 
steps  knocked  out  on  the  graveled  walk,  or  the 
jokes  which  were  "  swapped  "  in  bantering  tones 
and  high  good  humor — a  form  of  greeting  that  va- 
ried little  from  morning  to  morning. 

"  Hi,  dar,  nigger;   stir  yo'  stumpers!" 

"  I  takes  no  slack  jaw  dis  mo'nin'.  I  walks  right 
ober  vou  'reckly." 

"Huh!  ef  yo'  sasses  vie,  I  slams  yo'  down, 
chile,  and  puts  my  foot  on  yo'  haid.  What's  de 
kon'squence  ob  dat?" 

"A  daid  nigger!  Dar'll  be  de  kon'squence,"  is 
the  cheerful  response,  while  a  succession  of  calls, 
"  hoorahs,"  and  cries  of  "  Hear  dat  nigger  now !  " 
"Ain't  he  asteppin'?"  sounded  clear  and  vibrant 
on  the  still  air. 

On  they  came.  Uncie  Amos  quietly  in  the  lead, 


14  aunt  dice: 

baring  his  head  to  Aunt  Dice's  courteous  "  Good- 
mo'nin',"  Uncle  Silas  following  with  his  usual 
plea  for  a  "  leetle  drap  mo'  for  de  mis'ry  in  de 
back,"  and  the  sharp  response,  "Step  on,  Silas; 
I  want  yo'  room." 

"Come,  boys,  be  lively;  daylight's  burnin'." 
And  the  dusky  column  moved  on  with  boisterous 
shouts  and  musical  calls,  startling  the  sleepy  cocks 
from  the  barnyard  roosts,  and  echoing  across  the 
river,  which  lay  aflush  under  the  eastern  skies. 

Aunt  Dice,  though  supervisor,  scorned  an  idle 
hour.  It  was  she  who  prepared  the  well-cooked 
meals  for  the  master's  table;  who  ordered  provi- 
sions for  the  quarters;  overlooked  the  butter-mak- 
ing, the  spinning  and  weaving,  the  cutting  of  gar- 
ments, and  the  plain  sewing  for  the  numerous 
slaves ;  never  resting  her  weaiy  feet  until  the  last 
laborer  went  back  to  the  fields  after  the  midday 
meal.  Her  master  sometimes  gently  interfered: 
"  Two  hours'  rest  at  noon,  Dice.  Man  and  beast 
should  rest  in  the  heat  of  the  day." 

So  when  the  soncrs  of  the  laborers  ran£  out  from 
the  fields,  and  the  music  of  wheel  and  loom  went 
merrily  on  within.  Aunt  Dice  went  out  to  her  cabin  to 
take  her  well-earned  rest  and  enjoy  a  quiet  smoke, 
her  only  indulgence.  Her  clean,  fragrant  pipe, 
used  in  unobtrusive  hours,  was  never  offensive. 

The  master  smiled  over  his  purchase.  He  had 
made  no  mistake.  Conscious  of  his  trust,  she  soon 
assumed  control  of  the  slaves — in  a  way.  Respect- 
ful they  certainlv  were;   man,  woman,  and  child 


THE   STORY  OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  15 

were  under  her  imperious  sway,  and  well  she 
ruled.  Aunt  Dice  believed  in  discipline ;  while 
one  and  all  liked  and  admired  her,  she  thought  it 
best  to  instill  into  this  liking  a  little  of  fear,  to  make 
it  wholesome.  A  lazy  negro  was  her  special  det- 
estation. She  delighted  in  scattering  a  crowd 
of  dusky  forms,  basking,  lizard-like,  in  the  sun. 
Few  of  the  laziest  could  stand  the  curious  sidelong 
glance  of  her  sharp  eyes,  and  many  a  step  quick- 
ened under  that  searching  look. 

How  far  her  rule  extended  even  the  master  did 
not  question,  nor  the  mistress,  who  began  to  lean 
upon  her  and  trust  to  her  guidance  in  the  mani- 
fold duties  of  a  southern  matron.  The  rule  of  the 
house — its  domestic  duties — it  was  hers  to  order. 
Her  judgment  was  supreme,  her  counsel  never  lost. 
The  mistress,  who  as  "  Lady  Bountiful  "  dispensed 
a  wide  charity,  had  only  to  sav  to  her,  "x\unt  Dice, 
our  neighbor  is  sick;  she  needs  help."  Aunt  Dice 
packed  a  full  basket  and  started  on  her  errand  of 
mercy,  ministering  to  the  poor  in  a  way  well  fitted 
to  heal  a  mind  diseased.  She  fed  and  nursed,  she 
cleaned  and  swept,  until  the  bare,  rude  homes  of 
the  poor  whites  shone  bright  with  the  sick  faces. 

The  master  found  himself  referring  to  her  wis- 
dom:    "  Dicy,  shall  we  kill  hogs  this  week?" 

"  They's  eatin'  they  heads  off,  Mos  William. 
an'  fat  as  mud." 

The  hogs  were  slaughtered. 

"  Is  it  time  to  plant  potatoes.  Dicy?  " 

"  'Pears  to  me   the    groun's  waitin'  fur  'em," 


16  aunt  dice: 

was  the  busy  answer;  and  the  potatoes  were 
planted. 

But  Aunt  Dice  was  also  learning.  Within  her 
wholesome  surroundings  she  found  much  to  edi- 
fy,  to  help  her.  The  nobility  and  upright  charac- 
ter of  her  quiet  master;  the  influence  of  the  mis- 
tress, a  woman  of  kind  speech  and  gentle  manner; 
the  pure  atmosphere  and  well-ordered  household; 
a  house  whose  God  was  the  Lord,  the  Bible  the 
most  honored  book  in  the  quaint  old  bookcase; 
not  a  home  of  pretentious  superiority,  but  one  of 
comfort  and  solid  standing,  of  quiet,  far-reach- 
ing charity  and  Christian  excellence — all  these  ele- 
ments were  unfolding  within  the  stunted  soul  of  the 
slave  an  inherent  germ  of  rare  worth  and  beaut}*. 
Her  observant  eyes  lost  nothing  that  could  serve 
to  strengthen  or  uplift  her.  Her  hungry  soul  was 
feeding. 

At  night,  within  her  cabin,  sounds  of  mirth  and 
revelry  reached  her  from  the  quarters,  the  patter 
of  time-keeping  feet,  the  music  of  fiddle,  banjo, 
and  ringing  clevis  pins.  But  the  sound  which 
pleased  her  most,  which  reached  her  soul,  came 
from  the  cabin  of  Uncle  Amos,  which  was  set 
apart  from  the  quarters  in  the  shadow  of  the 
woods;  a  song  whose  volume  of  sweetness  and 
power  poured  its  melody  into  every  chink  and 
crevice  of  the  crowded  quarters,  hushing  the  ruder 
noise  of  viol  and  uproarious  mirth : 

"The  mo'  I  pray  the  happier  I  am; 
I  love  God,  glory  halleluiah!" 


THE   STORY  OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  1 7 

On  the  still  night  air  the  melody  trembled,  soared, 
and  reached  from  glory  to  glory  : 

"This  religion  I  believe, 
Glory,  halleluiah! 
Soon  -we'll  land  our  souls  up  yonder, 
Glory,  halleluiah!" 

From    Pisgah's    top  the   venerable    old    patriarch 
sang: 

"  Happy  people  ober  yonder; 
Happy  people  ober  yonder; 
Soon  we'll  meet  dem  ober  yonder, 
On  de  oder  bright  sho'." 

Aunt  Dice  listened,  and  prayed.  This  seed, 
sown  in  good  ground,  rapidly  grew  and  bore  fruit. 
It  was  shortly  afterwards,  as  she  lay  on  a  sick  bed 
in  the  early  days  of  her  invalidism,  that  Aunt  Dice 
found  the  wondrous  peace  and  realized  the  power 
of  redeeming  love.  The  prayer  of  Uncle  Amos, 
strong  in  its  faith,  the  piled-up  promises  before  a 
throne  of  grace,  the  sure  answer  of  peace,  proved 
to  the  purchased  slave  the  "glorious  liberty"  of 
the  soul.  Aunt  Dice  was  "  converted"  ;  to  put  it 
plainly,  she  was  born  again.  The  old-time  reli- 
gion of  Tennessee,  which  blazed  its  way  with  the 
pioneer  ax,  that  held  its  own  through  civil  strife — 
the  conflict  of  brother  with  brother — that  holds 
good  to-day,  was  ever  afterwards  her  stay  and  sup- 
port. She  received  her  baptism  from  a  white  min- 
ister, held  her  membership  with  a  white  congrega- 
tion, and  drank  the  wine  in  communion — an  hon- 
ored and  trusted  member. 

The  years  passed  on,  and  Riverside  prospered. 
2" 


iS  aunt  dice: 

The  negro  quarters  broadened  and  throve  under 
the  humane  treatment  of  a  kind,  much-loved  mas- 
ter. To  say  that  Aunt. Dice  was  a  valued  sen-ant 
and  trusted  friend  but  faintly  expressed  her  worth. 
The  children  were  objects  of  her  especial  care. 
To  tell  of  her  stanch 'integrity,  the  faithful  per- 
formance of  a  duty  imposed  upon  her,  it  is  well  to 
say  that  the  pure  morals  she  set  forth,  the  homely 
advice  she  gave  from  her  great,  untutored  soul, 
live  yet  with  the  children's  children. 

Her  cabin  was  a  rendezvous  for  the  little  ones, 
which,  as  best  remembered,  was  a  log  room  neat- 
ly papered,  with  a  wide  fireplace,  and  a  loft  over- 
head. In  front,  below  the  bluff,  ran  the  river, 
ever  the  friend  and  companion  of  Aunt  Dice's  sol- 
itary hours.  From  the  back  door  a  sunny  garden 
stretched,  where  it  was  her  habit  to  sit  and  smoke 
her  pipe  in  summer  afternoons,  where  she  watched 
the  broad  sweep  of  the  cotton  fields,  and  the  silver 
sheen  of  the  river  tli rough  the  tall  sycamores  that 
fringed  its  winding  course.  The  cabin  was  com- 
fortably furnished.  The  old-fashioned  "  four- 
poster  "  was  nearly  hidden  beneath  a  huge  feather 
bed  and  drapery  of  the  snowv  counterpane.  A 
bureau  with  <jlass  handles  stood  under  a  swinmno- 
mirror.  A  cupboard,  suggestive  of  tempting  edi- 
bles, occupied  one  corner,  while  a  swinging  shelf 
full  of  quilts  hung  from"  the  ceiling. 

Aunt  Dice,  sitting  in  her  split-bottomed  chair  bv 
the  broad  hearth,  was  a  conspicuous  and  familiar 
figure.     She  was  of  low  stature,  and,  after  her  re- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.       19 

stored  health,  just  fleshy  enough  to  hide  the  waist- 
band of  her  everyday  apron.  In  her  cotton  gown 
she  looked  comfortable  enough,  but  in  her  "  Sun- 
day "  costume  she  was  more  impressive  —  really 
grand-looking — wearing  her  black  silk  gown  and 
mantle,  or  black  lace  shawl,  to  advantage.  Her 
face  is  more  difficult  to  describe — a  strong,  homely 
face,  which,  whether  severe  or  pleasing,  seemed  to 
have  "  character"  written  in  every  curve  and  ex- 
pression. Her  forehead  was  expansive,  her  eyes 
— not  the  prominent  African's — were  rather  small, 
and  full  of  fire,  whether  twinkling  in  fun  or  in 
those  curious  sidelong  glances  which  reminded 
one  to  be  up  and  doing.  Her  nose  was  slightly 
flattened;  her  broad,  roomy  cheeks  were  smooth 
and  glossy ;  but  her  mouth — well,  those  great  lips 
could  drop  an  inch  or  more  in  a  seemingly  sense- 
less stupor,  or  twist  almost  to  each  ear  in  a  carica- 
ture of  which  the  children  were  often  unfortunate 
victims;  yet  Aunt  Dice  was  wont  to  draw  them  up 
with  such  a  majestic  sweep,  such  grand  curves, 
that  her  face  was  trulv  inspiring. 

Beyond  her  faithfulness  and  upright  qualities, 
her  next  distinctive  characteristic  was  pride,  not  in 
herself  alone,  but  in  her  surroundings — the  fair  pos- 
session of  her  beloved  owners,  and  the  children, 
with  whom  she  spared  no  pains  to  uphold  the  fam- 
ily standing.  The  i;  grown-up  children  "  she  con- 
sidered beyond  her  reach  or  discipline;  she  gave 
them  the  respect  due  their  years,  kept  a  shin- 
ing, spotless  table,  laundered  their  linen,  criticallv 


20  AUNT   DICE.- 

inspected  their  toilets — and  their  visitors.  But 
the  three  youngest — two  girls  in  long  pinafores, 
and  a  toddling  boy — she  called  her  very  own; 
an  appropriation  they  were  not  slow  to  learn, 
since  it  involved  a  tutelage  peculiarly  Aunt 
Dice's. 

Annie  Macy,  gentle  and  quiet,  was  too  much  her 
mother's  counterpart  to  often  need  reproof;  but 
long  and  many  were  the  times  that  the  merry,  care- 
less Katherine  sat  on  the  low  stool  by  the  cabin 
hearth — to  her,  in  truth,  the  stool  of  repentance. 
Both  were  careful  to  observe  their  manners  and 
bearing  more  closely  in  this  humble  cabin  than  in 
wider  territory  and  greater  freedom  ;  for  well  they 
knew  that  this  was  Aunt  Dice's  vantage  ground  for 
a  lecture.  A  lecture — without  words — they  most 
dreaded.  If  one  sprawled  in  her  chair  in  unfem- 
inine  nefjlicence,  Aunt  Dice  would  festoon  herself 
on  every  available  one  in  the  room;  if  one  were 
unfortunate  enough  to  let  fall  a  silly  remark  or 
show  an  unwonted  stupiditv  in  Aunt  Dice's  pres- 
ence, she  would  literally  double  herself  on  the  low 
stool,  showing  a  dull,  expressionless  face,  her  great 
lips  dropping,  quivering,  until  from  sheer  pit}*  she 
would  laugh  suddenly,  lay  her  black  hand  on  the 
delinquent  head,  and  say  with  tender  emphasis: 
"Don't  think  Aunt  Dice  is  an  ole  fool,  chile." 
Now  when  she  laughed,  remember,  she  laughed 
all  over;  her  whole  body  caught  the  enthusiasm  of 
those  short  metallic  sounds — quicklv  over;  but  oh, 
how  she  enjoved  it !     What  a  light  in  those  small, 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      21 

dark  eyes !  What  a  glow  over  the  dark  face, 
which  was  neither  a  yellow  nor  a  gingerbread 
color,  but  a  truly  black.  Her  tears  were  some- 
thing like  her  laugh — a  quick,  convulsive  sobbing, 
short  sounds  of  grief;  then  her  face  was  its  own, 
its  cheerfulness  predominant. 

The  boy,  whom  she  unceremoniously  dubbed 
Sam — or  Sammy,  as  occasion  required — was  not 
so  easily  managed;  though,  strange  to  say,  she 
loved  him  mqst — a  love  he  returned  with  all  his 
might.  From  his  crawling  age  he  loved  the  space 
of  her  broad  bosom,  the  shelter  of  her  arms;  and 
many  a  journey  did  he  take  astride  her  neck  to  the 
cotton  fields,  whither  she  went  on  her  quiet  tours 
of  inspection.  As  a  toddler  he  was  ever  at  her 
heels,  though  in  her  cabin  he  soon  learned  the 
usage  of  the  stool,  and  was  often  put  sobbing  in 
the  white  bed  after  a  wholesome  spanking,  when 
the  storm  in  his  blue  eves  had  burst  in  unusual  vi- 
olence. His  awakening,  however,  found  a  solace 
and  recompense  sufficient  even  for  him:  the  cup- 
board doors  were  as  wide  open  as  the  arms  of  his 
dark  monitress. 

"  Whar  do  the  chile  git  his  temper?"  was  her 
frequent  query.  "  Xot  from  Mos  William,  nur 
Miss  Mary."  " 

Many  a  lesson  in  manners  and  morals  did  she 
teach  the  children.  Her  natural  instincts  of  true 
courtesy  and  refinement  were  uniformlv  correct. 
She  especially  detested  a  giggle,  and  never  for- 
gave a  woman  she  knew  for  a  rather  boisterous 


22  AUNT    DICE: 

sneeze  in  church.  Indeed,  her  sharp  eyes  were 
ever  quick  to  detect  a  breach  of  etiquette  or  a 
charm  of  personal  manner. 

Still,  her  cabin  had  other  attractions.  Aunt  Dice 
was  wise.  She  was  careful  to  gloss  over  the  irk- 
some effect  of  her  "  preaching."  Though  she 
never  tolerated  a  ghost  story,  being  free  from  the 
superstition  of  her  race,  she  kept  in  store  a  number 
of  Indian  tales  for  the  appetite  of  the  little  folk,  and 
stories  of  wolves  which  howled  abo^it  her  cabin  in 
the  early  days  of  the  century. 

When  the  girls  were  old  enough  for  school,  Aunt 
Dice  made  them  sing  their  "b-a  ba's"  to  her 
while  she  listened  gravely,  and  thought  them  prod- 
igies of  learning.  When  their  samplers,  worked 
in  gay  crewels,  were  brought  to  her,  she  inspected 
them  critically:  4i  Yours'll  do.  Miss  Anne;  that's 
putty  well  done.  You  mus'  have  one  now  in  silk, 
an'  hang  in  mistis'  room.'' 

Over  Katherine's  sampler  her  long  lip  quivered 
and  dropped. 

"'You  don't  like  it,  Aunt  Dice!  "  cried  the  of- 
fender, almost  in  tears. 

"  It's  sorter  so,  Katherine — onlv  sorter.  Them 
letters  may  do  well  'nough;  but  I  ain't  neber  seen 
yit  red  leaves  an'  blue  roses." 

Aunt  Dice  ruled.  The  truth  was  plain.  She  had 
probed  her  way  into  the  verv  hearthstone  of  her 
mistress's  household ;  but  she  never  repelled  or 
nauseated  one  by  a  close  intimacv.  Cleanly  in 
speech  and   person,   her  nature   was    strong    and 


THE   STORY  OF  A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  23 

sweet,  her  influence  stimulating.  Under  her  care 
children  were  safe. 

The  master  found  for  her  a  wider  field  of  use- 
fulness. The  cabin  connecting  with  hers  by  the 
double  chimney  was  set  apart  for  her  use,  and  it  was 
usually  filled  with  motherless  slaves,  children  whom 
the  kind  master  had  picked  up  from  less  fortunate 
homes;  outcasts,  vagrants,  with  little  reputation  to 
lose  and  much  to  gain.  The  master  stood  often  at 
her  door  with  a  new  purchase:  "  Dicy,  take  this 
boy  to  your  cabin.  Teach  him  to  bathe  and  be 
clean.     Teach  him  how  to  live." 

Stimulated  by  her  master's  confidence,  Aunt 
Dice  began  to  wield  a  powerful  influence ;  not  only 
among  her  orphaned  charges,  but  throughout  the 
quarters  she  taught  in  homely  language  the  reward 
of  virtue,  the  excellency  of  honest,  upright  living. 


CHAPTER  III, 


UNT  DICE  had  her  own  romance,  how- 
ever; or  her  sorrow,  as  it  seems  more  fit- 
ting; to  term  a  negro's  tale  of  love.  Few 
guess  the  tragedy  that  lies  buried  beneath  the  sto- 
ical exterior  of  negro  life:  bravely  bearing  their 
domestic  troubles,  even  cheerfully  taking  them  up 
as  their  allotted  portion. 

The  master  was  somewhat  surprised  when  Aunt 
Dice  came  to  him  one  Christmas  eve,  and  asked  his 
consent  to  her  marriage  with  Caesar,  a  handsome, 
stately  negro  from  a  neighboring  plantation. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  Dicy,"  he  said  slowly; 
and  perhaps  this  was  the  most  lengthened  advice 
he  had  ever  given  her.  "  I  hardly  like  the  negro. 
He  is  too  great  a  beau  among  the  women ;  too 
fond  of  gadding  about.  However,  I  shall  do  the 
best  I  can  for  vou." 

Caesar  was  ambitious.  The  beau  of  the  colored 
community,  the  gallant  of  every  social  gathering, 
he  had  looked  about  for  years  for  a  suitable  help- 
meet— a  "  quality  nigger,"  whose  position  would 
insure  him  a  promotion  to  a  higher  standing.  His 
inordinate  vanity  suggested  Aunt  Dice  to  him — a 
power  at  Riverside,  and  already  an  aristocrat  to 
her  finger-tips — as  a  means  to  this  end.  As  her 
husband  he  would  acquire  a  preeminence  among 
(24) 


THE   STORY   OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  25 

his  own  which  would  place  him  on  a  higher  scale 
as  a — gentleman.  Riverside,  too,  was  a  fair  field 
for  his  ambition  in  a  business  way;  that  is,  his  pos- 
sible purchase  and  position  as  overseer. 

It  was  evident  in  a  quiet  way  that  Aunt  Dice 
"  favored''  Ccesar.  She  approved  of  his  spotless 
linen,  his  polite  address,  his  elegant  manners.  She 
was  attracted.  His  delicate  attentions  pleased  her. 
She  graciously  consented  when  he  asked,  with  the 
bow  of  a  Chesterfield:  "Lady,  will  you  hab  de 
goodness  to  'low  me  to  'scort  you  to  chu'ch?" 

Aunt  Dice,  sitting  at  the  rear  of  the  "white 
meetinghouse,"  could  not  help  but  notice  that 
Ccesar  led  all  his  colored  brethren  in  grace  and 
deportment,  a  steady  dignity  that  with  all  his  faults 
never  failed  to  command  Aunt  Dice's  respect. 

The  master  made  good  his  promise  by  buying 
Ccesar;  perhaps  he  did  not  tell  Aunt  Dice  the 
stern  talk  he  received  from  his  new  master,  when 
he  was  promised  the  hand  of  the  favorite  slave. 

So  they  were  married.  A  great  feast  was  spread, 
one  that  the  darkies  long  remembered.  Uncle 
Jack  stood  on  his  head  until  his  strained  sinews 
reminded  him  of  a  more  convenient  performance. 
Uncle  Silas  forgot  his  aches,  and  ••  limbered  up  " 
for  the  occasion.  The  scraping  of  fiddles,  the 
tuning  of  banjos,  the  jingle  of  clevis  pins,  told  of 
a  breakdown  for  the  late  festivities. 

In  the  mistress's  own  parlor  thev  stood  before 
the  white  minister  while  he  read  the  beautiful 
formula  of   the  marriage  ceremony.     Ccesar  was 


26  aunt  dice: 

resplendent  in  a  suit  of  broadcloth,  ruffled  linen, 
and  white  satin  waistcoat.  From  the  top  of  his 
carefully  carded  hair  to  the  tip  of  his  polished  boot 
he  was  immaculate.  Aunt  Dice,  clothed  in  pure 
white,  and  not  uncomely,  was  quiet  and  thankful 
for  the  many  kindnesses  conferred  upon  her  by  the 
white  people,  and  for  the  blessing  laid  upon  her 
head  under  the  trembling  hands  of  Uncle  Amos. 

Caesar  proved  a  kind  husband  in  many  respects; 
indeed,  he  always  observed  toward  his  wife  a 
courteous  bearing  and  outward  show  of  greatest 
deference  and  respect.  He  executed  the  honors 
of  his  cabin  with  all  the  elaborate  manners  of  an 
old-school  gentleman,  and  the  careful  hospitality 
of  a  southern  host.  He  himself  was  treated  with 
some  distinction  as  the  husband  of  the  princess  re- 
gent: his  meals  were  served  on  a  white  cloth  in  the 
master's  kitchen,  his  morning  drams  from  the  fam- 
ily sideboard.  Gifted  with  quick  intelligence  and 
business-like  tact,  he  was  trusted  with  yearly  sales 
of  produce,  and  never  failed  his  master  in  accu- 
rate accounts  and  profitable  transactions.  Pro- 
moted to  overseer,  he  indulged  his  love  of  pomp 
and  display,  and  made  a  stately  figure  in  the  cotton 
fields  astride  his  master's  handsome  black  horse, 
or  riding  with  conscious  superiority  beside  the 
great  wagons  as  they  rolled  into  Nashville,  laden 
with  the  generous  harvestings. 

This  last  purchase  proved  a  remunerative  one. 
Coesar  was  a  valuable  slave.  But  the  master's 
misgivings   proved   too  true.      Ccesar  was   fickle. 


THE   STORY    OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  27 

His  shallow  nature  found  no  rest  beside  the  deep, 
still  fount  of  his  wife's  love  and  faithfulness. 
Married  life  for  him  had  hardly  begun  before  he 
donned  his  tall  silk  hat  and  renewed  his  £addin<r 
about — a  veritable  flirt  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

Aunt  Dice  bore  her  wrongs  in  silence.  Xone 
ever  heard  her  complain.  There  was  only  a  closer 
application  to  duty;  a  noticeable  tenderness  and 
devotion  to  children;  an  unconscious  leaning  to- 
ward the  gentle  mistress,  who  answered  the  mute 
appeal  with  unstinted  sympathy. 

Ccesar  was  still  an  object  of  grave  considera- 
tion with  Aunt  Dice.  His  wants  were  attended  to 
with  studied  care ;  his  silk  hat  and  black  clothes 
always  in  readiness;  his  snowy,  ruffled  shirts  the 
wonder  and  admiration  of  his  many  dusky  friends. 
But  her  affections  settled  more  surely,  perhaps, 
around  her  own  children,  a  son  and  daughter;  par- 
ticularly her  son,  Charley,  who  was  growing  up  to 
manhood,  and  who,  as  the  unfolding  years  proved, 
brought  upon  her  the  keenest  trial  of  her  life. 

Charley  was  a  bright-skinned  youth,  with  jetty 
curls,  and  eyes  that  sparkled  with  such  changeful 
lights  that  no  one  could  tell  what  lav  beneath  the 
jjlitterinii  surface.  "  The  devil  is  in  'em."  said 
his  plavmates. 

That  Charlev  was  "  rapid  and  onsteadv  "  Aunt 
Dice  realized  with  sorrow.  Moreover,  his  com- 
panionship with  Sam,  the  youngest  born  of  her 
beloved  master,  caused  her  constant  uneasiness. 
How  far  these  bovs  ventured  into  mischief  or  dan- 


28  aunt  dice: 

ger,  Aunt  Dice  could  not  determine.  They  tamed 
wild  colts  and  broke  the  oxen ;  they  hunted,  fished, 
swam,  played,  and  scuffled.  Aunt  Dice  detested 
this  scuffling,  which  often  ended  seriously.  Char- 
ley was  ever  sullen  and  hard  to  control,  but  Sam, 
her  nursling,  had  lately  begun  to  measure  lances 
with  her  and  declare  his  rights  as  the  young  master 
of  Riverside.  These  bold  declarations,  however, 
had  only  ended  ignominiously  for  Sam.  She  found 
them  one  day — Sam  and  Charley — in  a  hand-to-hand 
encounter,  rolling  and  scuffling  on  her  cabin  floor. 

"What's  the  cause  o'  this?"  she  demanded  in 
a  quiet,  stern  way,  which  sent  Charley  cowed  to 
his  corner.  Sam  stood  up  straight  and  faced  her 
with  his  stormy,  blue  eyes. 

"  He  told  me  a  lie.  If  he  lies,  he'll  steal.  I  told 
him  so." 

"  Don't  be  so  sho'  o'  that,  Sammy.  Come 
here  and  set  down." 

Again  they  measured  lances.  Sam  met  her  keen 
look  boldly. 

"  Don't  call  me  '  Sammy.'  Call  me  4  Mos 
Sam  ' — Aunt  Dice— I — " 

Aunt  Dice  led  him  by  the  ear  with  no  gentle 
hand  to  the  stool  in  the  opposite  corner. 

"  Set  yo'se'f  down  thar,  twell  you  fin'  yo'  man- 
ners. I'll  call  you  'Mos  Sam'  whenever  vou 
'sarves  it,  chile — whenever  vou  'sarves  it.  O, 
Sam,"  her  voice  dropping  suddenly,  "  why  ain't 
you  like  Mos  William?  " 

"  I  can't  be  like  father!  "  cried  Sam  wrathfullv 


THE   STORY  OF  A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  29 

from  the  stool  which  he  was  careful  not  to  leave. 
"I  never  can  belike  him." 

"  It  'pears  to  me,  Sammy,"  Aunt  Dice  continued, 
"  that  you've  rode  ever'  calf  on  the  place,  an'  lamed 
up  the  colts,  an'  you're  jist  a  killin'  off  all  ole  mistis' 
geese.  I  th rowed  a  gander  in  the  river  t'other  day, 
an'  a  goose  to-dav.     Who  is  it,  you  or  Charley?  " 

Mos  Sam  caught  the  wicked  sparkle  in  Char- 
ley's eyes,  and  was  silent.  Aunt  Dice  looked  the 
guilty  culprits  over. 

"You've  alius  tried  to  shiel'  Charley,  chile,  but 
lis'en  to  me:  keep  way  f'ora  him;  he  ain't  no  fit 
comp'ny  fur  you." 

Mos  Sam  wriggled  on  his  stool.  Charley  dug 
his  toes  in  the  ashes  on  the  hearth  and  eyed  his 
mother  sullenlv. 

Aunt  Dice  picked  up  her  knitting.  Out  of  doors 
the  sun  shone  brightly;  the  birds  called  and  whis- 
tled; the  river  rippled  on  its  way  and  silver}*  trout 
leaped  up  from  its  blue  waters,  gleaming  in  the  sun- 
light. Farther  up  the  bluff  a  crowd  of  negro  bovs 
plunged  headlong  into  the  cool  depths  of  the  "  big 
hole,"  theirlaughing  whoops  and  "dar  ve's"  sound- 
ing tantalizinglv  clear  to  the  two  captives  within. 

Mos  Sam  turned  his  eyes  from  the  shining  stretch 
of  river  and  sought  the  calm  glance  of  Aunt  Dice 
over  her  busy  needles:    "  Mammy,  I'm  hungrv." 

Aunt  Dice  opened  wide  her  cupboard  doors: 
"Here,  chile,  go  'long  now.  Stop  yo'  fightin' 
an'  be  a  man,"  she  said — to  the  flving  heels  which 
disappeared  around  the  corner  of  her  cabin. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ORNSHUCKING!  Not  the  New  En- 
gland "  husking  bee,"  famed  in  song 
and  story,  when  stalwart  youths  and  rosy 
"maidens  were  wont  to  meet  and  dance  on  rude 
barn  floors  after  the  busy  husking;  when  the  for- 
tunate finder  of  a  red  ear  of  corn  tendered  his 
prize  to  his  lady  love,  the  one  with  whom  he 
"kept  company."  Oh  no!  but  the  noisy,  mer- 
ry cornshucking  of  the  ante-bellum  South,  when 
negroes  held  high  carnival  amid  swinging  ears  of 
corn  and  around  the  laden  table  of  the  harvest 
feast;  when  master  and  mistress  bowed  cheerfully 
to  the  grotesque  rule  of  the  merrymakers  for  a 
season — the  swift-winged  hours  of  the  cornshuck- 
insr  niijht. 

The  negro's  highest  ideal  of  enjoyment  has  its 
necessary  accompaniment  of  a  feast.  Second 
onlv  to  the  Christmas  festivities  at  Riverside,  with 
the  array  of  baked  sweetmeats,  the  crammed 
stockings  of  "goodies,"  the  bowls  of  creamy 
eggnog,  the  happy  "  Chris' mas  gif's,"  was  the 
yearly  cornshucking,  with  its  merry  misrule  and 
harvest  cheer.  Next  in  turn  came  the  ho<i-killin<r 
in  frostv  November,  where  visions  of  sparerib  pies 
and  backbone  stews  were  realized  and  enjoyed. 
The  sugar-making  in  February  broke  the  torpor 
of  winter;  and  lastly,  the  wheat  harvest  in  June 
(30) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      3 1 

brought  the  busy  reapers,  whose  sickles  swung 
amid  the  yellow  grain  to  the  beat  and  measure 
of  their  harvest  song,  while  the  "  Bob  Whites" 
called  through  the  livelong  da)-.  Within  a  shadv 
inclosure,  kept  cooler  still  by  swathings  of  wet 
green  leaves,  was  the  keg  of  whisky,  no  less  a 
feature  of  the  summer  harvest  than  the  savorv 
dishes  served  at  the  quarters,  where  the  dinner 
horn  rang  a  suggestive  sound  that  the  "  big  pot 
was  put  in  the  little  one." 

"  Cornshucking,  boys!  "  shouted  to  the  labor- 
ers at  supper  in  the  quarters'  kitchen  at  Riverside 
brought  forth  a  slapping  and  beating,  a  whoop  and 
call,  a  general  stampede  of  broganed  feet  under 
the  kitchen  table. 

"  Dram,  dram;  oh,  dat  bottle!  "  rolled  from  a 
pair  of  lusty  lungs. 

"  Stop  dat  noise;   wait  twell  yo'  time  come." 

"  Barbecue,  barbecue:  ham  an"  turkey!  Possum 
an'  taters :  chicken  stew!      Hustle,  bovs,  hustle!" 

Preparations  began.  On  the  next  day  invita- 
tions went  flying  across  the  countrv,  up  and  down 
the  river,  to  the  colored  acquaintances  of  neigh- 
boring plantations.  On  this  particular  occasion, 
Cajsar,  who  omitted  no  chance  to  celebrate  his 
high  position,  found  this  a  convenient  time  to  il- 
lustrate his  authority  and  display  his  wisdom  as  a 
general  manager.  Pigs,  lambs,  and  a  tender  calf 
were  slaughtered,  and  lay  roasting  slowly  over  hot 
coals  in  the  trenches.  The  hills  were  scoured  for 
game,  the  river  dragged   for  fish;   chickens,  tur- 


32  aunt  dice: 

keys,  and  ducks  wore  sacrificed,  while  at  the  quar- 
ters negro  women  stirred  their  bowls  of  sweet- 
ened dough,  "  whipped"  their  frosting,  or  tended 
the  ovens  of  rich,  sweet  corn  lightbread. 

Aunt  Dice  suspended  her  rule  and  smiled  over 
the  merry  quips  and  quirks  of  the  waiting  women, 
the  antics  and  pranks  of  the  pickaninnies.  She 
spread  the  long  tables  with  clean  white  linen,  and 
piled  them  to  fullness  with  jellies,  custards,  and 
dainty  furnishings  of  her  own  handiwork — not 
forgetting,  however,  to  lay  by  a  generous  store  for 
the  schoolboy  Sam,  who  was  taking  his  first  les- 
sons in  life  under  the  uncertain  favor  of  a  peda- 
gogue's rule.  His  dinner  bucket,  Aunt  Dice  con- 
sidered, was  naturally  his  greatest  consolation  since 
he  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  pies,  tarts,  and  flaky 
pastry.  She  was  wiser  than  she  knew.  The 
schoolboy's  heart  beat  some  of  its  truest  throbs  for 
her  when  he  opened  his  well-packed  dinner  pail 
after  a  trvin£  lesson  in  svntax. 

But  the  cornshucking ! 

At  nightfall  the  steady  incoming  of  the  invited 
guests  crowded  from  over  the  hills  and  up  the  val- 
leys, by  twos  and  threes  on  horseback  and  mule- 
back;  by  the  dozen  in  heavy,  lumbering  wagons: 
by  the  half  dozen  in  swift-gliding  canoes.  The 
work  began.  The  heaps  of  corn,  piled  high  in  the 
cribs,  dwindled  surely  under  the  strong  hands  of  the 
shuckers.  Ctesar,  ever  mindful  of  an  opportune 
moment  to  display  his  superior  excellence,  stepped 
grandlv  in  his  best  clothes  from  crib  to  crib,  or- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      33 

dering  his  troop  of  busy  boys  in  gathering  the 
huskings,'or  stowing  the  corn  into  barrels.  Old 
men  passed  the  compliments  of  the  day  or  re- 
lated their  experiences,  replete  with  wisdom. 
Young  men  "swapped"  their  jokes,  or  bantered 
for  shucking  races  in  braggadocio-like  tones. 
A  low,  monotonous  chanting  slowly  gathered 
strength  as  the  dark,  smart  faces  swayed  back 
and  forth  under  the  gleaming  lamplight: 

"Th'ow  it  up,  shuck  it  up — 
Corn  pile,  corn  pile! 
Shuck  it  up,  round  it  up — 
Corn  pile!" 

Louder  grew  the  singing;  musical  intonations,  a 
call,  a  beat,  a  whistle,  touched  the  chorus  into  life: 

"Th'ow  it  up,  shuck  it  up — 

Corn,  corn,  corn  pile,  corn! 
Shuck  it  up,  round  it  up — 
Corn,  corn  pile,  corn!" 

The  golden  ears  swung  high,  swung  low.  Dusky 
forms  swayed  to  and  fro,  while  high  above  the 
din  floated  the  melody  of  the  cornshucking  songs, 
rising,  falling,  swelling  in  perfect  measure. 

Pickaninnies  reveled  in  the  shuck  piles.  Pick- 
aninnies scampered  from  barn  to  quarters'  kitch- 
en, and  stared  with  wide-eyed  wonder  at  the  fan- 
cifully decked  tables  and  huge  trays  of  smoking 
meats.  Sounds  of  life  and  bustle  at  the  quarters 
reached  the  workers  in  the  cribs,  while  odors  of 
juicy  meats  drifted  to  them  from  the  dying  coals 
in  the  trenches. 
3 


34  AUNT  dice: 

Faster  flew  the  busy  hands.  The  yellow  corn 
swung  low,  swung  high.  The  sleepy  birds  twit- 
tered from  the  trees.  The  startled  king  of  the 
barnyard  dunghill  rang  his  clarion  call  at  ten 
o'clock.  A  hundred  voices  flooded  the  air  with 
music,  widening,  swelling,  pouring  into  the  homes 
of  neighbors,  far  and  near,  rocking  the  babies  to 
sleep;  floods  of  music,  in  resonant  bass  and  glori- 
ous soprano;  a  note,  a  call,  a  whistle  filling  in  the 
measure  harmoniously.  The  hearty  cheer  of  the 
opening  lines  blended  well  with  the  repeating 
chorus : 

"Work  away,  boys; 

Heave-ho! 

Sing  away,  boys; 

Heave-ho! " 

Words  of  their  own  improvising  did  not  disturb  the 
steady  rhythm : 

"Gimme  dat  co'n  year; 
Heave-ho! 
Th'ow  me  dat  co'n  here; 
Heave-ho! 

"Fetch  up  dar,  nigger; 
Heave-ho! 
Limber  up,  nigger; 
Heave-ho!" 

Uncle  Amos,  though  hardly  in  his  element, 
worked  steadily  from  his  corner  in  the  great  barn. 
Duty,  not  inclination,  called  him  there.  He  took 
no  part  in  the  singing:  those  songs  were  not  re- 
ligious ones,  therefore  he  failed  to  respond  to  the 
riotous  music.     A  song  of  redeeming  love  would 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      35 

have  fired  his  old  eyes  and  made  nimble  his  fin- 
gers, which  all  these  merry  jingles  had  failed  to 
do.  Nevertheless,  he  endured  patiently,  sure  of 
a  halleluiah  chorus  in  his  honor  before  the  carni- 
val ended.  Uncle  Amos  knew  that  throughout 
the  quarters  his  venerable  white  head  was  uni- 
versally respected.  One  and  all  did  him  rever- 
ence, but  never  more  so  than  when  in  his  walk 
among  them,  as  if  treading  the  border  land  of 
another  world,  they  sang  sometimes  in  smothered 
tones, 

"Ole  man,  ole  man,  yo'  head's  gettin'  nappy," 
followed  by  a  burst  of  applause  from  lusty  throats : 

"  Yes,  my  Lord!  an'  my  soul's  gettin'  happy." 

Charley  was,  as  usual,  the  imp  of  the  occasion; 
an  imp  of  the  evil  one  himself,  so  thought  many 
who  had  more  than  once  borne  his  overbearing 
insolence  and  sly  trickery.  He  coupled  his  merrv 
buffoonery  with  a  cunning  which  served  him  well 
in  shirking  his  duty..  The  harvest  feast  was  his 
to  enjoy,  not  his  to  serve.  He  walked  the  joists 
of  the  barn,  swung  head  downward,  and  many  a 
well-aimed  ear  of  corn  struck  the  woolly  head  of 
a  busy  worker. 

That  Charley  presumed  upon  his  honored  re- 
lationship the  men  of  the  quarters  felt  deeply. 
There  were  none  so  bold  as  to  inform  Aunt  Dice 
that  with  all  her  discipline,  her  moralizing  and  in- 
struction, she  had  reared  one  so  badlv.  Their 
well-meant    sympathy  and   deep   respect    for    her 


36  aunt  dice: 

kept  them  silent.  Perhaps  Aunt  Dice  realized  her 
failure  more  than  they  knew,  though  as  usual  her 
mantle  of  proud  reserve  shielded  her  from  curious 
questions  and  unpleasant  advice. 

But  little  cared  Charley  for  their  liking  or  dis- 
like as  he  swung  high  among  the  rafters,  whoop- 
ing, calling,  or  blowing  his  flute-like  canes.  He 
jeered  at  the  older  and  bantered  the  younger  men, 
and  wound  up  his  antics  by  stepping  coolly  in  front 
of  the  master  himself,  who  looked  in  occasionally, 
and  executing  a  jig  of  fantastic  figures  with  won- 
derful rapidity. 

"  Bless  dat  boy!  "  said  Uncle  Jack  cheerfully. 

"  He  needs  a  tech  o'  Moses'  rod,"  snarled  Silas, 
whose  ear  smarted  from  a  recent  blow. 

"  He  sho'  is  a  hard  boy,"  declared  Steven,  whose 
wisdom  was  seldom  questioned. 

"  Dat  he  is!"  responded  a  chorus  of  emphatic 
voices. 

"  But  you  is  got  dat  up  wrong,  Uncle  Silas, 
suh,"  continued  Steve,  who  considered  no  meeting 
complete  without  an  argument.  "  I  ain't  neber 
hear  nothin'  'tall  'bout  Moses'  rod;  but  Sol'mun 
do  p'intedly  sav  in  fust  Ginisis,  when  he  was  libin' 
at—" 

"Normandy,"  interpolated  Jack. 

"At  Jerushalem,  dat  ef  you  spar  de  rod  you 
sho'  spile  de  boy.     Ain't  dat  so,  Uncle  Amos?  " 

"  Do  your  own  arguin',"  said  Uncle  Amos. 

"  Where  is  Normandy,  Jack?  "  queried  Sam,  an 
amused  listener  from  the  window. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      37 

"  Now  listen  at  young  moster!  "  exclaimed  Jack 
busily.  "  I  don't  'zackly  'member,  suh,  whar  dat 
kentry  is;  I  suttenly  see  it  in  my  trabels,  some'r's 
•'long  'bout  Novy  Scotia,  Ontario,  or  de  Low- 
lands/' he  concluded,  with  all  a  negro's  fondness 
for  musical  names. 

"  Now  to  'elude  my  disc'urse,"  persisted  Steven, 
who  could  read  laboriously:  "  f'om  de  'casion  o' 
Uncle  Amoses  last  demark,  it  natchelly  comes  to 
min'  dat  to  argefy  we  mus'  hab  a  toler'ble  knowl- 
edge of  de  Bible ;  dat  is,  to  'lustrate,  ef  we  steal  an' 
lie — I  say  ef — how  cum  us  to  know  de  wrong,  les'n 
de  Bible  speshelly  say  so.  So  de  kon'squence  is, 
an'  de  natchel  impersition  mus'  be,  dat  to  be  saved 
inter  de  kingdom  come,  de  Bible  mus'  p'int  de  way. 
How's  dat,  Uncle  Amos?" 

"I  don'  know  nothin"  'bout  de  Bible,  'cep'n 
what  de  white  folks  say,"  said  Uncle  Amos. 

"  Den,  suh,  de  question  is,  how  cum  you  know 
you'se  bawn  ag'in?" 

"  I  wunst  wus  blind,  but  now  I  see,"  said  the 
old  slave  simply. 

"Das  so,  das  so,"  said  wise  Steven. 

The  shuffling  of  feet  in  the  cribs,  the  triumphant 
cheering,  told  of  the  last  "rounding  up."  The 
tall  clock  in  the  master's  dining  room  pealed  the 
hour  of  twelve. 

"  Dram,  dram  ;  oh,  dat  bottle  !"  sang  the  workers. 

Charley,  from  his  high  resting  place,  made  a 
monkey  spring  for  Silas's  aching  back,  and  bound- 
ed out  the  door  to  be  first  at  the  feast. 


3§  aunt  dice: 

Uncle  Amos  quietly  left  his  corner  as  the  last 
heap  of  corn  was  rapidly  disappearing.  He  found 
his  way  to  the  quarters  where  the  waiting  tables 
stood,  and  Cassar  waited  also  to  do  the  honors  of 
Riverside. 

"Aunt  Dice,  tell  Mos  William  to  hide — dey's 
nearly  done.'" 

On  such  occasions  the  master  little  relished  the 
demonstrative  affection  of  his  slaves — a  ceremonial 
ride  three  times  around  his  dwelling  on  the  hands 
of  a  stalwart  pair  of  leaders.  He  chose  to  "hide" 
after  ordering  a  keg  of  his  best  brandy  to  the  feast. 

"  Dram,  dram ;  oh,  dat  bottle  !  "  On  they  came 
in  a  column  of  two  abreast,  marching  to  the 
stone  steps  of  the  back  gallery;  but  the  master's 
significant  absence  and  a  word  from  Aunt  Dice 
turned  the  column  with  noisy  cheering  back  to  the 
quarters. 

And  such  a  feast !  Barbecues,  brown  and  juicy, 
from  a  rabbit  to  a  fat  porker.  Fish,  broiled, 
baked,  and  fried;  opossum  and  sweet  potatoes; 
ducks,  geese,  and  turkeys,  roasted  and  stuffed ; 
enormous  chicken  potpies ;  gallons  of  steaming 
coffee;  mounds  of  frosted  cakes;  piles  of  pud- 
dings, jellies,  and  elaborately  trimmed  pies! 

The  master  and  his  household  stood  smiling  in 
the  background.  Uncle  Amos  lifted  his  hands 
and  praised  the  "good  God  fur  de  blessin'  of  de 
harvus'  feas',  fur  de  kin'  ole  moster  an'  mistis,  an' 
de  glory  of  His  name." 

The    feast   be^an.     Neirro    wit   flowed    freelv. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      39 

Nejrro  women  dressed  in  smart  clothes  served  from 
the  heaped-up  side  tables,  under  the  quiet  orders 
of  Aunt  Dice. 

Two  hours  afterwards  the  scraping  fiddles  and 
beating  feet  signaled  the  grand  finale.  The  "  hal- 
leluiah "  chorus,  which  was  not  forgotten,  aroused 
Uncle  Amos  from  his  morning  nap. 

The  galloping  horses  churning  the  river,  the 
swish  of  canoes,  the  soft  stroke  of  paddles,  the 
shouts  and  calls,  proclaimed  the  hour  of  dawn  and 
the  departure  of  the  guests. 

With  the  sunrise  Aunt  Dice  stood  at  her  post  by 
the  rum  barrel  and  kindly  greeted  the  advancing 
row  of  laborers.  Cassar  sat  his  horse  like  a  king. 
The  cornshuckincr  was  over. 


CHAPTER  V. 


HE  eldest  son  of  the  house  was  married. 
The  master  settled  him  on  a  plantation 
several  miles  up  the  river,  and  Charley 
was  given  to  him  as  part  of  his  'marriage  portion, 
which  was  a  relief  to  Aunt  Dice,  as  he  disturbed 
the  quarters  with  a  quarrelsome,  dictatorial  dispo- 
sition. 

Uncle  Amos,  too,  though  old  in  years,  followed 
the  nursling  of  his  heart  with  the  same  devotion 
as  when,  in  his  younger  days,  he  Ijad  followed  his 
old  master,  then  a  tender  stripling,  from  far-off 
Virginia. 

Two  years  were  spent  in  busy  life.  Aunt  Dice 
spared  no  pains  to  uphold  the  open  hospitality  of 
prosperous  Riverside.  She  spread  a  tasteful  and 
bounteous  table.  The  old-fashioned  sideboard 
glittered  with  crystal  goblets,  bowls  of  white  loaf 
sugar,  and  quaint  decanters  of  wine  and  brandv, 
for  the  refreshing  of  guests  and  numerous  callers 
— a  time-honored  custom,  now  happily  abolished. 

The  elder  daughters,  two,  were  married  and 
"  settled  in  homes  of  their  own,"  Aunt  Dice  said 
proudly.  The  children,  Anne  and  Katherine, 
were  well  provided  for.  New  lands  were  added 
to  Riverside,  new  farms  bought,  and  Mos  Sam 
was  known  now  as  the  young  master. 
(10) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      41 

Mos  Sam  had  earned  his  title  at  last — quite  de- 
servingly,  Aunt  Dice  thought,  though  she  still 
brought  him  to  his  senses  occasionally,  when  his 
hot,  imperious  temper  flashed  from  the  storm  of 
his  eyes.  Charley  no  longer  urged  him  on.  The 
fat  steers  chewed  their  cuds  in  peace ;  the  colts 
frisked  and  played  in  the  pastures;  the  geese  re- 
covered their  dignity  and  breasted  the  blue  waves 
of  the  river  with  their  wonted  calmness. 

Mos  Sam  was  wrestling  with  mightier  questions. 
He  pored  over  dry  books  of  chemistry,  he  conned 
his  Latin  verbs,  he  battled  with  his  geometry,  un- 
der the  threatening  rod  of  the  Yankee  school- 
master. 

"  Dat  Yankee  school-teacher!  Whar  he  come 
f'om?"  asked  Aunt  Dice  suddenly,  after  he  was 
duly  installed  at  Riverside  as  a  permanent  boarder. 

"  From  Vermont,"  answered  Sam,  shortly. 

"Whar's  dat?" 

"Away  up  north." 

"  Furriner?  " 

"  Oh  no,  Aunt  Dice;   he's  an  American." 

*'  He  talk  cur'ous,"  she  said,  musingly,  "  an'  he 
make  too  free  wid  de  niggers.  Got  any  niggers?" 
she  asked  quickly. 

"Yankees  don't  believe  in  niggers;  or  rather, 
they  don't  believe  in — slavery,"  stumbled  Sam, 
with  a  southerner's  reluctance  for  the  word. 
"  They  hold  for  equality." 

"Huh!  fine  ekals  niggers  be  —  fur  gen'l'mun 
an    ladies.     Who  waits  on  'em?" 


42  aunt  dice: 

"  The  Yankees?  They  wait  on  themselves  com- 
monly, or  hire  white  hands." 

"Humph!  I  mistrus'  him,"  she  said,  emphatic- 
ally. "  I'll  sho'  speak  to  Mos  William  'bout  him. 
He  furgits  his  learnin'  when  he  tries  to  beat  it  into 
you — an''  his  raisin'." 

"  I'll  whip  him,  Aunt  Dice,  some  day." 

Aunt  Dice  laid  her  pipe  on  the  shelf. 

"Mos  Sam,  outside  o'  his  whuppin'  you,  can't 
ye  all  see  how  he's  a  follerin'  'long  o'  Miss  Kath- 
'rine — totin'  of  her  books  to  school,  sailin'  'bout 
in  the  skyft  together,  an'  a  fillin'  of  her  han's  wid 
flowers  an'  sich  like?  Who  can  tell  what's  in  dat 
chile's  head;  an'  what  would  she  do  widout  nig- 
gers to  wait  on  her?  " 

But  Mos  William  smiled  over  Aunt  Dice's  warn- 
ing, and  refused  to  part  with  the  Yankee  school- 
master. Good  schools  were  rare  in  youthful  Ten- 
nessee. 

Aunt  Dice  was  comforted  somewhat.  Mos 
William  was  wise;  he  seldom  made  mistakes. 
Mos  Sam  was  certainly  on  the  mend — but  no  nig- 
gers !  What  sort  of  folks  could  that  Yankee  have? 
She  would  keep  an  eve  upon  him. 

The  old  house  echoed  to  the  sounds  of  merri- 
ment and  pleasant  life.  The  quarters  flourished. 
Swarms  of  negro  boys  fished  and  swam  in  the 
river;  swarms  of  pickaninnies  rolled  on  the  grass. 
Uncle  Jack,  with  his  wiry  subalterns,  led  out 
from  the  stables  his  master's  thoroughbreds,  whose 
sleek  coats  shone  like  burnished  copper,  and  start- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      43 

ed  for  the  Franklin  and  Triune  races,  sino;ino-  the 
rather  stirring  couplet: 

"De  fust  time  she  cum  roun'  she  open  de  way; 
De  nex'  time  she  cum  roun'  she  bid  'urn  'Good-day. 

The  golden  harvests  filled  the  barns.  Caesar 
rode  pompously  back  and  forth  inspecting  the  daily 
work  of  busy  slaves.  Aunt  Dice  stepped  to  the 
music  of  wheel  and  loom,  or  quickened  to  the  far- 
off  melody  of  the  workers'  songs:  she  was  happy. 
Then  came  a  rude  awakening.  Rumors  floated 
down  the  river:  "  Charley  was  quarrelsome." 
Aunt  Dice  was  filled  with  dread.  "  Charley  kept 
strife  in  the  quarters."  A  season  of  suspense,  and 
the  news  came,  swift  as  the  dancing  waves  of  the 
river:  Charley  was  to  be  sold.  Again  the  waves 
came  prattling  by:  "  Sold  to  a  slave  dealer,  to  be 
carried  south!"  Then  it  was  that  Aunt  Dice 
knelt  at  her  master's  feet;  her  proud  reserve  fled 
in  the  hour  of  her  agony:  "  Mos  "William !  Mos 
William  !   save  him  !  " 

Charlev  was  brought  in,  bound,  to  bid  his  mother 
good-by.  The  master  stood  by  and  offered  his 
worth,  twice,  three  times  his  value.  But  the 
slave  dealer  was  obdurate.  He  had  bought  him 
conditionally:  he  was  not  to  sell  him  in  Tennessee. 
Tears  and  entreaties  were  of  no  avail;  mother 
and  son  were  separated.  The  burden  of  her  heart 
so  proudly  guarded,  the  dread  and  suspense  of  a 
nameless  fate  for  her  wayward  son  were  at  last 
revealed  and  realized.  How  she  took  up  the 
broken   threads  of   life,  wove  into  them  her  uni- 


44  aunt  dice: 

form  cheerfulness  and  steady  devotion  to  duty, 
.  none  can  judge.  Yet  it  is  well  to  say  that  through 
all  this  stormy  period  she  never  lost  her  cheerful 
demeanor  toward  her  white  people;  more  notice- 
ably toward  the  children,  where  her  inexhaustible 
store  of  a  rare,  quaint  humor  never  failed. 

She  passed  a  quiet  winter.  The  fattened  swine 
were  killed,  and  the  great  smokehouse  hung  full 
of  brown,  cured  meat.  The  cotton  was  picked, 
spun,  and  woven.  Barrels  of  homemade  soap 
were  stored  away  in  March;  then  —  but  perhaps 
the  river  could  tell  it  best  —  how  the  floods  came 
in  the  springtime  and  lifted  a  hoarse  cry;  how 
her  brown  waters  crept  over  field  and  swamp  and 
piled  her  bosom  with  driftwood;  how"  she  laughed 
again  when  the  summer  returned  with  its  hot  sun- 
shine; how  the  bright  blue  waters  danced  and  rip- 
pled with  a  cruel  mirth,  or  gurgled  softly  around 
the  gray  cliffs  of  the  cemetery,  whispering  of  the 
east-lying  swamps  and  the  deadly  typhoid  fever. 

For  silence  reigned  at  Riverside.  No  longer 
the  wagon  wheels  creaked  under  heavy  burdens ; 
no  longer  the  negroes*  songs  rang  out  from  the 
field  in  wild  melody.  The  charcoal  forge  had 
paled  to  ashes ;  the  music  of  wheel  and  loom  had 
ceased,  for  the  silence  of  death  was  within.  In 
the  quarters  duskv  forms  lay  tossing  in  pain  and 
wild  delirium ;  stiffened  bodies  were  carried  from 
cabin  doors  to  people  the  heights  of  Riverside 
cemetery. 

Still    the    river    laughed    and    sang.     The    east 


THE   STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.  45 

winds  blew  with  the  breath  of  a  thousand  flowers. 
Deadly  white  fogs  crept  up  from  the  valleys  and 
hung  the  rugged  cliffs  in  ghostly  drapery.  It  was 
a  bright  morning  in  August,  when  the  birds  sang 
aglee  with  life,  that  within  the  darkened  home  of 
Riverside  one  of  the  master's  sons  lay  dead. 

Aunt  Dice  stood  the  battle  bravely.  With  her 
master  by  her  side,  she  trod  the  rounds  of  her 
mission,  tiring  neither  by  day  nor  night.  Not  that 
the  blow  fell  less  severely  on  her:  her  only  daugh- 
ter was  among  the  first  to  die,  and  left  to  her  care 
three  orphan  children;  neither  did  her  strength 
fail  when  Caesar  fainted  from  the  bleeding  process 
then  administered,  and  was  put  to  bed  to  fight  the 
fever  at  this  fearful  disadvantage. 

Uncle  Jack  lay  down  with  the  rest — happy- 
hearted  Uncle  Jack,  who  never  spared  a  kindly 
deed  nor  hoarded  a  kindlv  smile.  He  lay  with  a 
mute  appeal  in  his  fevered  eyes  until  Aunt  Dice 
closed  them  forever. 

"  Will  this  never  end,  Dicy  ?'"  the  master  some- 
times said,  as  his  tears  fell  on  the  stricken  faces. 
He  had  borne  his  own  sorrow  quietly,  but  the 
sufferings  of  these  helpless  blacks  appealed  to  his 
nature  in  strongest  sympathy. 

Still  the  fever  raged  on,  and  Caesar  went  out 
one  night  on  the  wings  of  its  wrath.  Caesar  was 
dead.  Caesar,  the  gallant  beau,  the  gay  Lothario, 
but  ever  the  polite  and  courteous  Caesar,  was  dead. 
This  was  a  blow  to  Aunt  Dice.  He  was  her  sor- 
row, but  yet  her  pride.     She  would  miss  him  sore- 


46  AUNT   DICE. 

ly — his  delicate  attentions,  his  unfailing  courtesy, 
his  efficient  help  among  the  negroes;  she  would 
miss  his  shrewd  management.  His  stately  figure 
in  the  cotton  fields  she  would  see  no  more.  His 
failings  she  remembered,  but  they  rested  lightly 
upon  her,  now  that  he  was  dead.  He  was  laid 
away  carefully  in  his  black  clothes  and  snowy 
linen,  and  looked  in  his  narrow  bed  as  if  he 
needed  but  the  tall  silk  hat  to  take  up  his  gay  life 
again. 

The  end  came  at  last.  The  fever  was  spent. 
There  were  long  davs  of  rest  at  Riverside,  davs 
of  calm  while  the  summer  waned,  and  the  conva- 
lescent negroes  dozed  in  their  cabin  doors,  or 
fished  lazily  with  hook  and  line  under  the  shady 
sycamores.  With  the  frost  came  reaction.  The 
axes  rang  steadily  and  clear  in  the  hills,  and 
from  the  whitened  fields  the  harvest  songs  told  in 
quavering  music  of  renewed  hope  and  energy. 
There  was  little  to  tell  of  the  fearful  fever  save 
the  fresh-heaped  mounds  of  earth  and  the  tall 
marble  shafts  that  gleamed  amid  the  cedars  at 
Riverside  cemetery. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


UNT  DICE  went  her  quiet  way.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  had  taken  up  her  mis- 
sion understanding!}7 — bearing  her  own 
troubles  quietly,  and  assuming  the  burdens  of 
others.  The  cabin  adjoining  hers  was  filled  with 
orphan  charges;  but  the  three  children  of  her 
daughter  Fanny  she  kept  in  her  own  room  with 
a  faithful  nurse  whom  the  master  had  provided. 
The  youngest  of  the  three,  a  tiny  infant  taken 
from  her  dead  mother's  bosom,  required  her  con- 
stant oversight. 

"How  is  our  little  pet,  Dicy?"  was  the  mas- 
ter's daily  question. 

The  "little  pet"  throve  wonderfully.  "Pet" 
she  was  called,  and  a  pet  she  was,  fortunately  for 
her,  to  the  end  of  her  short  life.  At  her  crawl- 
ing age  she  developed  a  fondness  for  the  "  white 
folks'  house,"  and  a  veritable  black  crow  she  was 
by  nature  or  practice — always  into  mischief,  or 
into  forbidden  grounds,  wherever  her  insatiable 
curiosity  led  her  fat  little  body.  The  mistress  in- 
dulged and  petted  her,  and  kept  her  often  out  of 
harm's  way  in  the  cozy  sitting-room  corner,  or 
claimed  her  attendance  when  she,  the  mistress, 
went  her  weekly  rounds  among  the  sick  and  poor. 

Aunt  Dice  returned  in  full  measure  the  kind- 
ness heaped  upon  her  during  her  late  affliction. 

(47) 


48  aunt  dice: 

The  children  of  her  mistress — always  "the  chil- 
dren "  with  Aunt  Dice,  though  they  were  growing 
to  manhood  and  womanhood — were  objects  of  her 
unsparing  devotion.  Her  rebukes  were  a  little 
more  stern,  perhaps;  but  even  in  this  she  was 
never  tiresome,  always  ending  a  lecture  with  a 
quaint  piece  of  drollery  and  inimitable  grotesque- 
ness  that  one  must  have  known  to  understand.' 
Aunt  Dice  was  never  loquacious.  Her  sentences 
were  short,  terse,  and  to  the  point.  Indeed,  if  an 
expressive  gesture  could  avail,  words  were  not 
used.  A  shrug  of  her  shoulders  was  a  sign  of 
disapproval;  her  dropped  lip  a  ridicule  and  suffi- 
cient lecture  in  itself;  her  sidelong  look  a  ques- 
tion that  laid  bare  the  heart;  but  one  of  her  broad, 
sunshiny  smiles  was  a'sufficient  recompense  for  all 
the  golden  deeds  ever  done  at  Riverside. 

Katherine,  the  eldest  of  "the  children."  was 
thoroughly  initiated  into  these  ways ;  and  Kath- 
erine now  was  uppermost  in  Aunt  Dice's  mind, 
for  with  the  blooming  womanhood  and  brilliant 
beauty  of  this  "  merry  maiden  "  the  question  of  a 
possible  marriage  forced  itself  upon  Aunt  Dice's 
mind.  She  looked  with  some  dismay  upon  the 
prospects  of  her  nursling.  Who  was  her  choice? 
Could  it  still  be  the  Yankee  schoolmaster,  who 
was  soon  to  return  to  his  northern  home?  Aunt 
Dice  only  hoped  he  would  depart  in  peace,  and 
leave  the  child  where  negroes  were  plentiful.  Or 
was  it  her  Cousin  Harry — handsome,  good-natured 
Mos  Harry,  who  had  strings  of  negroes  to  be  sure, 


THE   STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.  49 

but  was  much  too  fond  of  his  wine  cup  and  much 
too  generous  to  "  save  money  "  ? 

Aunt  Dice  put  the  question  plainly  when  Kath- 
erine  next  visited  her  cabin:  "Who  is  you  goin' 
to  marry,  chile?" 

"  Guess,  Aunt  Dice,"  said  the  spoiled  "  chile," 
spreading  out  her  dainty  skirts  and  resting  her 
slippered  feet  on  the  old  dog  iron. 

"That  Yankee  school-teacher?"  ventured  the 
interrogator,  painfully. 

Katherine  pulled  a  soft,  dark  curl  over  her 
sparkling  eyes  and  smiled  wickedly. 

"Not  yo'  Cousin  Harry?  He's  shiftless,  chile, 
if  he  is  a  Macy." 

A  ringing  laugh  caused  the  questioner  to  stum- 
ble sadly  in  her  guessing. 

"Sho'ly  not  that  ill-mannered  upstart  what 
brags  on  his  money?  I'd  ruther  'twould  be  that 
Yankee—" 

The  dark  curls  rested  in  Aunt  Dice's  lap.  A 
little  ear  showed  rosy  red.  "Aunt  Dice,  you 
dear,  blind  old  mammy,  where  are  your  sharp 
eyes?" 

"  The  preacher!  "  said  mammy  suddenly,  drop- 
ping her  pipe  in  her  surprise.  "  Who  would  a 
thought  it?  Well,  well,  chile,  you'll  never  be  rich, 
that's  sho',  but  you'll  be  kin'ly  keered  fur  all  the 
same.  You  shall  have  some  niggers  to  wait  on 
ye.  Thar's  Harriet  an'  Chany,  Dick  an'  Joel — all 
Amos's  grandchildren.  An'  you've  got  a  nice 
home  all  waitin'  fur  ye." 
4 


So  aunt  dice: 

Aunt  Dice  had  thought  little  of  the  "  preacher  " 
as  a  possible  suitor,  though  he  was  often  at  Riv- 
erside, as  at  other  plantations,  preaching  at  the 
quarters,  visiting  the  sick,  faithful  in  duty  and 
earnest  in  action.  He  pleased  Aunt  Dice.  Ear- 
nest endeavor  always  pleased  her. 

The  wedding  came  off  quietly,  and  very  beauti- 
ful Katherine  looked  in  her  white  gown  and  flow- 
ing veil;  a  new  dignity  on  her  bright  young  face, 
a  graver  smile  on  her  red  lips,  which  answered  to 
the  name  of  "  wife." 

With  the  following  winter  came  a  surprise 
which  was  a  joy  and  pain  to  Aunt  Dice.  It  was 
at  the  time  of  sugar-making  in  the  hills,  and  the 
campers-out  made  merry  over  great  kettles  of 
boiling  maple  sirup,  their  songs  and  laughter 
floating  out  on  the  frosty  air.  Aunt  Dice  went 
out  to  the  hills  on  her  daily  round  of  inspection; 
but  what  was  her  surprise  to  see  her  son  Charley, 
the  gayest  of  the  gay,  the  central  figure  of  the 
group  by  the  camp  fires  ! 

Charley  had  "run  off";  had  found  his  way, 
no  one  knew  how,  through  the  trackless  miles  of 
forest  and  swamp,  to  "  home  and  old  moster." 
But  the  master  could  avail  nothing,  though  he 
again  tried  to  buy  him  when  the  slave  dealer  ap- 
peared. Charley  was  not  discouraged.  He  be- 
stowed a  parting  message,  full  of  hope:  "  Sho' 
now,  mammv,  'tain't  no  use  to  grieve  a'ter  me. 
I'se  gwine  to  keep  on  runnin'  off  twell  moster  do 
buy  me." 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      5 1 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  When  the  harvest 
feast  was  spread,  and  the  shuckers  swung  their 
corn  to  the  measure  of  musical  rhyme,  Charley 
surprised  them  by  a  spring  to  the  great  barn  floor, 
and  a  rapid  "pitapat,"  executed  with  wonderful 
agility  for  his  worn  shoes  and  weary  legs. 

"  Dat  'strep'rous  boy'll  get  his  'sarts  some  day," 
commented  Steven. 

"A  rascally  scound'el,"  said  Silas,  who  had  sur- 
vived the  fever,  and  lived  to  anathematize  his 
kind. 

Charley  was  hardly  a  welcome  visitor  at  the 
quarters,  even  under  this  romantic  guise,  though 
his  ability  asa  "  runaway  nigger,"  and  his  varied 
experiences,  true  or  imaginary,  surprised  and  in- 
terested them.  His  stay  was  short.  After  the 
Christmas  festivities,  the  reappearance  of  the  slave 
dealer  caused  him  to  turn  his  face  toward  southern 
Mississippi. 

Again  the  drearv  length  of  miles  was  traversed, 
and  again  Charley  arrived  at  Riverside,  footsore 
and  weary;  after  which  the  exasperated  owner 
sold  him — not  to  the  master,  but  to  a  neighboring 
planter  across  the  river. 

Soon  afterwards  Aunt  Dice  gave  evidence  of  a 
weakness  that  sorely  puzzled  her  kind  old  master. 
"This  is  Dicy's  only  slip,"  he  was  wont  to  say. 
The  "  slip "  was  a  second  marriage,  to  an  old 
half-witted  negro,  called  Joe  Cris,  an  overseer  on 
the  plantation  to  which  Charley  belonged.  The 
marriage  was  sudden,  and  seemingly  without  rea- 


52  AUNT   DICE: 

son.  Even  Charley  could  not  understand  this 
foolish  step.  The  master's  consent  had  not  been 
asked ;  indeed,  she  had  been  married  some  weeks 
before  the  news  reached  him. 

Joe  Cris  was  a  standing  theme  for  a  joke  at  Riv- 
erside quarters.  He  was  a  small,  dark  African — 
a  Guinea  negro,  some  called  him — with  an  unusual 
infliction  of  impediments:  a  halting  speech  ;  an  am- 
bling, rolling  gait;  eyes  that  struggled  painfully 
to  focus  an  object;  and  a  brain  which  served  him 
well  with  its  one  merit — that  of  remaining  true  to 
its  one  idea,  which  merit  alone  raised  him  to  over- 
seer. He  did  as  he  was  ordered,  just  that  and  no 
more.  He  lacked  the  ingenuity  to  go  farther,  the 
cunning  to  do  less ;  so  he  served  well  in  his  place  as 
second  overseer. 

None  ever  dreamed  that  Aunt  Dice  could  look 
twice  at  simple  Joe  Cris.  His  Saturday  night  visits 
had  been  barely  tolerated  by  her,  though  always 
accompanied  by  some  humble  offering — a  string 
of  pepper,  a  hen  and  chickens,  a  jug  of  molasses — 
which  she  accepted  with  a  stately  reserve  that  made 
his  humble  attention  more  cringing'. 

With  "  Mrs.  Cris  "  the  joke  came  to  a  sudden 
end.  Who  was  bold  enough  to  laugh  at  Aunt  Dice  ? 
So  in  the  quarters  there  was  a  painful  silence. 
Aunt  Dice  went  about  quietly,  very  quietlv,  al- 
most like  one  dreaming,  while  the  pickaninnies  rev- 
eled in  sunshine  and  idle  hours,  disregarding  her 
low  call  to  duty. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  "  slip."     The  master,  after  his 


THE   STORY   OF  A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  53 

first  sore  surprise,  kindly  let  the  matter  rest,  under- 
standing well  Aunt  Dice's  proud  reserve,  and  for- 
bearing to  question  the  motive,  wise  or  unwise,  of 
her  sudden  marriage.  His  confidence  in  her  was 
not  shaken.  His  sympathy,  though  unasked,  was 
tendered  in  various  ways.  Aunt  Dice  was  still 
the  honored  and  trusty  servant.  Indeed,  the  bond 
between  her  kind  master  and  herself  seemed  more 
closely  drawn  as  her  tender  devotion  upheld  his 
approaching  infirmities.  His  dependence  upon  her 
was  great,  greater  than  she  knew.  She  watched 
him  as  he  sat  on  the  back  gallery,  the  sunlight  on 
his  silvered  head,  an  open  Bible  across  his  knees. 
"That  Bible  is  jes'  blistered  with  his  tears,"  she 
said.  She  followed  him  with  anxious  interest  as  he 
went  his  quiet  way  among  his  slaves;  his  tender- 
ness and  care  of  them  she  never  spoke  of  without 
emotion.  He  carried  them  upon  his  heart;  their 
welfare  was  his  constant  study.  He  felt  deeplv 
the  responsibility  of  these  ignorant  souls  upon  his 
own.  He  went  to  Aunt  Dice  one  day  with  a  mes- 
sage from  Uncle  Amos,  who  was  done  with  earth- 
ly things.  "  Go  to  him,  Dicy;  see  that  he  has  a 
clean  pillow  to  die  on." 

Aunt  Dice  departed  on  her  mission.  On  a  snow- 
white  bed,  the  dying  saint  prayed  his  last  praver 
and  sang  his  last  halleluiah  on  earth.  She  returned 
home  with  an  aching  heart.  Mos  William  was 
failing;  he  would  soon  follow.  She  watched  him, 
waited  upon  him;  she  tended  and  served  him,  her 
stern  composure  almost  upset  at  times  bv  his  kindly 


54  AUNT  dice: 

smile.  A  long  talk  they  had  together,  after  which 
Aunt  Dice  was  never  quite  the  same :  there  was  a 
greater  devotion;  a  steadier  watchfulness,  if  possi- 
ble; a  tenderer  interest  in  her  master's  children, 
as  if  she  had  thrown  aside  her  own  troubles  as 
worthless  things,  and  had  consecrated  herself  whol- 
ly to  her  master's  own. 

Still,  with  the  undiminished  confidence  and  es- 
teem of  her  dear  master,  Aunt  Dice,  though  deeply 
grateful,  could  not  bring  herself  once  to  explain  to 
him  the  cause  of  her  sudden  marriage.  Regard- 
ing her  own  private  burdens  she  was,  as  usual, 
mute  and  noncommittal. 

A  year  afterwards,  to  he?  unspeakable  sorrow, 
her  master  sickened  and  died,  after  having  at  last 
succeeded  in  buying  Charley  and  restoring  him  to 
his  mother.  This  last  act  overcame  her  reserve — 
too  late,  indeed,  for  the  master's  ears,  but  around 
the  finished  grave,  when  the  white  mourners  had 
departed,  and  the  negroes,  hitherto  orderly  and 
quiet,  lifted  a  wail  for  the  dead  master,  there  was 
heard  a  sharp  note  of  agony,  and  Aunt  Dice  knelt 
in  passionate  grief. 

"O  my  master!  my  blessed  master!  I  married 
him  to  be  kind  to  Charley;  an'  ye  never  knowed 
it !  ye  never  knowed  it !  " 

The  negroes  stood  with  bared  heads  and  listened. 
In  that  wild  regret  the  mystery  of  the  second  mar- 
riage was  explained.  To  shield  the  wavward 
Charley — the  insolent,  overbearing  Charley — she 
had  sacrificed  herself. 


CHAPTER   VII 


n 


N  the  quiet  days  that  followed,  Aunt  Dice  re- 
covered her  usual  flow  of  spirits  and  wonted 
activity.  The  plantation  throve  under  her 
wise  rule  and  industrious  example.  The  negroes 
respected,  obeyed  her.  Charley  was  married,  and 
happier  than  formerly  in  the  home  of  his  youth. 

Joe  Cris  no  longer  troubled  Aunt  Dice,  but  con- 
siderately kept  away,  visiting  her  only  once  a  year, 
bringing  his  humble  offering  as  an  apology  for  his 
presence.  These  visits  were  received  with  stud- 
ied kindness,  but  great  formality.  Perhaps  the  sim- 
ple old  soul  felt  dimly  that  he  had  greatly  wronged 
Aunt  Dice ;  perhaps  the  enormity  of  her  sacrifice 
dawned  upon  him  in  a  clearer  afterthought,  for  he 
held  to  the  day  of  his  death  that  "  Miss  Dicy  "  was 
as  far  above  him  as  the  stars. 

To  the  mistress  Aunt  Dice  was  a  trusted  friend, 
a  friend  of  long-tried  worth  and  human  excellence. 
The  young  heir  of  Riverside,  who  had  returned 
from  college,  returned  also — to  rule?  Oh  no!  to 
the  safe  covert  of  Aunt  Dice's  ample  wings  and 
to  her  almost  idolatrous  affection.  Mos  Sam  was 
ever  afterwards  the  song  of  her  heart  and  burden 
of  her  prayers. 

But  her  next  care  was  now  ner  young  mistress, 
Anne,  who  was  gentler  than  ever  in   her    black 

(55) 


56  aunt  dice: 

gown,  growing  more  and  more  like  her  honored 
mother,  consequently  more  and  more  dear  to  Aunt 
Dice.  The  question  of  her  approaching  marriage 
was  a  responsible  one,  now  that  the  master's  wise 
counsel  was  no  more.  Aunt  Dice  smoked  many  a 
pipe  over  the  problem;  she  pondered  deeply,  si- 
lently, as  the  fragrant  puffs  floated  up  the  broad- 
throated  chimney. 

Would  he  pass — that  slender,  boyish  -  looking 
doctor,  who  was  so  kind  to  Mos  William  in  his 
last  illness — who  had  already  won  her  mistress's 
gentle  respect;  would  he  pass?  She  learned  that 
he  had  settled  near  a  small  village  four  miles  dis- 
tant, and  had  begun  the  practice  of  medicine;  but 
who  was  he — Mos  John  Trevor?  Mos  Sam,  who 
looked  a  stranger  through,  had  received  him  kind- 
ly,  generously;  a  sure  sign  of  approval. 

The  "young  doctor"  himself  had  given  Aunt 
Dice  no  cause  for  disquietude;  indeed,  from  the 
beginning  of  his  friendly  footing  at  Riverside  he 
had  shown  a  fondness  for  her — an  honest  admira- 
tion, which  she  had  unconsciously  returned.  How 
could  she  have  felt  otherwise  when  he  had  shown 
from  the  first  a  respect  and  delicate  consideration 
for  her,  which  she  had  never  failed  to  appreci- 
ate? To  her  surprise  he  followed  at  her  heels, 
talking,  laughing,  questioning,  enthusiastic  over  the 
winding  river,  the  high  cliffs,  the  blue  hills.  He 
praised  her  cooking,  her  feathered  brood  of  fowls, 
her  neat  dairy.  He  even  found  his  way  to  her  cab- 
in, and  developed   a  fondness  for  her  cupboard, 


THE   STORY   OF  A  FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  57 

second  only  to  Mos  Sam  himself.  Aunt  Dice  soon 
found  herself  appropriated.  She  cleaned  his  gun, 
mended  his  fishing-net,  and  instructed  him  as  to 
the  "  likeliest"  holes  in  the  river  for  fishing.  He 
reminded  her  of  a  boy  turned  loose  from  school  to 
a  long  holiday.  And  so  it  was:  the  fresh,  green 
beauty  of  Riverside  was  a  rest  indeed  from  the 
long  lecture  room  at  the  Nashville  Medical  College, 
which  he  had  quitted,  however,  with  no  small  hon- 
or, it  was  said. 

But  this  "  boy,"  hardly  turning  twenty-one,  was 
to  wed  sweet  Anne  Macy,  one  of  the  children  of 
Aunt  Dice's  heart.  The  stern  experience  of  her 
own  sad  life  admonished  her.  Would  the  boy 
make  the  man  in  this  case?  When  trials  came — 
as  they  surely  visited  all — would  he  pass,  would 
he  hold  true?  She  resorted  to  the  usual  formula 
— a  trying  ordeal  of  questions. 

"  Whar  his  folks  live,  Miss  Anne?" 

"  In  Nashville,  Aunt  Dice,"  answered  Anne 
painfully. 

"Humph!  city  folks  !  Ain't thev bought  a  place 
roun'  here  some'r's?  " 

"The  plantation,  Beechwood,  near  West  Alton." 

"  I    know    where    'tis — a    likelv   place,  though 
West  Afton  might  be  called  '  Mud  River,'  fur  its 
color.     Is  they  got  many  niggers  at  Beechwood  ?  "  _ 
she  asked  carelessly. 

"  I  suppose  so,  Aunt  Dice." 

"  I  likes  the  bov,  Miss  Anne,"  Aunt  Dice  con- 
cluded, noticing  Anne's  flushed  face;    "but  he's 


58  aunt  dice: 

too  young — too  young.  Seems  ef  he  can't  git 
'nough  fishin'  an'  huntin'  'Ions  o'  Mos  Sam.  He 
ain't  took  life  in  earnest  yit,  but  he'll  have  to  learn 
by'mby — then  will  he  stan'  by  ye  faithful?  " 

"  Brother  Sam  speaks  well  of  him,  Aunt  Dice," 
said  patient  Anne;  "he  says  he  is  a  man  of  fine 
morals  and  upright  character — " 

"  Oh,  he's  been  well  raised,  that  I  knows;  he's 
well-behavin'  an'  p'lite,  an'  none  too  heavy-handed 
at  the  sideboard,  I  notice.  I  never  'spect  to  see 
anuther  Mos  William,  but  he  may  do  well  'nough. 
I  wish  ye  well,  chile ;  I  wish  ye  well.  You'll  have 
my  own  gran'chilluns  to  wait  on  ye;  they're 
young,  but  I'll  look  a'ter  ye." 

John  Trevor  and  sweet  Anne  Macy  were  mar- 
ried. Riverside  looked  beautiful  that  soft  October 
night.  The  rooms  shone  brightlv.  From  dining 
room  to  guest  chamber,  all  was  complete  under 
the  finishing  touch  of  Aunt  Dice's  faithful  fingers. 
The  mistress,  clad  in  a  black  satin  gown  which 
hung  in  straight  lustrous  folds  about  her,  her  soft 
muslin  kerchief  folded  neatly  over  her  bosom, 
her  dark  hair  parted  smoothly  over  madonna-like 
brows,  looked  even*  inch  her  real  self — a  sweet, 
old-fashioned  southern  woman. 

John  Trevor  arrived  from  Nashville  with  his 
mother  and  sisters — women  Aunt  Dice  knew  at  a 
glance  to  be  gracious  and  womanlv.  She  stood 
on  the  lawn  in  her  best  black  silk  as  the  carriage, 
with  its  stately-stepping  horses,  drew  up  through 
the  double  gate. 


1        THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      59 

"  I'm  glad  the  chile  was  well  fixed  fur  clo'es," 
Aunt  Dice  said  afterwards,  by  way  of  a  cheerful 
remark  to  the  lonely  mistress.  "  Thar  was  her 
white  dress  in  co'se  fur  the  weddin' ;  then  her 
lavender-sprigged  mull  will  do  well  'nough  over 
lavender  silk  fur  secon'  mo'nin' ;  then  thar's  her 
bomb'zine,  an'  black  silk,  an'  bonnits  to  match, 
an'  all  them  putty  chintzes  made  the  new  blouse 
waist.  Mos  John's  folks  is  nice  people.  I  par- 
tic'lar  favored  one  o'  them  gals." 

"Which  one,  Aunt  Dice?"  asked  the  young 
master,  flashing  a  keen  look  upon  her. 

"  The  one  that  wus  tall  an'  fair,  with  the  sweet, 
proud  look — Miss  Helen,  they  calls  her." 

Mos  Sam  whistled  softly,  looking  far  out  at  the 
silver-flashing  river,  through  the  sunlit  sycamores. 
Perhaps  he  "  favored  "  her  too — the  tall,  fair  girl, 
with  the  "  sweet,  proud  look." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


OCTOR  TREVOR  and  his  young  wife 
were  often  at  Riverside;  a  swift  horse  to 
a  light  buggy  soon  covered  the  flve-miie 
distance.  He  was  always  sure  of  a  welcome. 
The  mistress  smiled  upon  him.  The  young 
master  greeted  him  cordially.  Aunt  Dice  minis- 
tered to  him,  gradually  unbending  from  her  dig- 
nified demeanor  and  favoring  him  occasionally 
with  her  grotesque  figures,  grimaces,  and  carica- 
tures, all  of  which  conveyed  a  moral  easily  inter- 
preted by  the  wise  observer.  Notwithstanding, 
she  watched  him  closely.  John  Trevor  was  still 
boyish  and  full  of  fun.  He  climbed  the  hills, 
hunted  in  the  Barrens,  and  fished  for  hours  bv  the 
deep  blue  "  hole  "  under  the  bluff.  When  called 
professionally,  as  he  was  now  the  family  physi- 
cian, his  first  £reetin£r  from  the  double  jrate  was: 
"  Quick,  Aunt  Dice — my  pole  and  reel !  I'll  have 
time  for  an  hour's  fisjiing."  Aunt  Dice  began  to 
wonder  if  life  would  ever  prove  an  earnest  thing  to 
the  pleasure-loving  young  physician. 

True  to  her  word,  she  rode  over  to  Beechwood 
at  stated  intervals  on  her  mistress's  ridinjj  horse,  to 
look  after  Anne  and  her  household.  These  visits 
John  Trevor  usually  appropriated.  To  him  Aunt 
Dice  was  an  unfailing  source  of  amusement.  He 
never  tired  of  her  droll  ways  and  quaint  remarks. 
(60) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  6 1 

He  followed  her  from  kitchen  to  garden;  he  chat- 
ted with  her,  questioned  her,  smoked  with  her, 
ever  on  the  alert  for  a  new  gesture  or  original  say- 
ino\     To  him  she  was  a  study.     He  delighted  in 

o  JO 

reading  to  her  short,  simple  stories,  content  to 
watch  her  grave,  puzzled  face.  He  ransacked  the 
library  for  a  suitable  story,  one  within  the  range 
of  her  understanding.  Ah !  he  had  it — a  simple 
thinji,  ffivinjr  in  connection  with  a  domestic  scene 
a  detailed  account  of  choice  eatables,  cooked  to  a 
turn. 

Aunt  Dice  listened.  For  once  she  was  on  a  lev- 
el with  the  story.  The  savor  of  imaginary  viands 
on  an  imaginary  table  smote  her  nostrils.  She 
interrupted  him:  "  Stop,  Mos  John  !  stop!  I'm  a 
perishin'  fur  a  piece  o'  co'nbread — I'm  so  hungry." 
Mos  John  laughed  delightedly  and — lunched  with 
her. 

Aunt  Dice's  intense  pride,  her  grand  air,  the 
majestic  sweep  of  her  broad  lips,  interested  as 
well  as  amused  John  Trevor.  She  never  wore 
gaud}-  colors,  nor  used  a  head  handkerchief — a 
style  too  significant  of  the  common  African  tvpe 
to  suit  her  patrician  fancy.  Despite  her  color, 
she  never  termed  herself  a  negro.  She  had  pon- 
dered long  over  the  problem  of  her  lineage,  con- 
tenting herself  at  last  with  the  concession  that  she 
sprang  from  the  bluest  "  blue  blood  "  of  far-away 
Africa.  When  suggested  to  her  by  John  Trevor 
— by  reason  of  gout  in  her  great  toe — that  she 
mav  have  descended  from  a  long  race  of  kings, 


62  AUNT  dice: 

for  centuries  used  to  high  living  and  princely  diet 
(cannibalism  was  omitted),  she  listened  gravely, 
and  must  have  believed  herself  a  princess  in  cot- 
ton, for  ever  afterwards  this  particular  toe  received 
her  tenderest  consideration.  In  spite  of  her  pre- 
cautions, Aunt  Dice  found  within  her  heart  a 
growing  fondness  for  Mos  John.  "  He  ain't  been 
tried  yit,"  she  argued;  but  she  carried  home  a 
cheerful  report  to  the  mistress.  "  Mos  John's 
a  good  purvider — a  leetle  too  free-handed  with 
monev,  but  Miss  Anne's  well  keered  fur." 

Aunt  Dice's  services  were  often  in  demand  at 
Beechwood.  One  day  in  the  following  spring 
Anne  Trevor  read  in  some  dismay  a  note  which 
her  husband  had  laid  in  her  hand.       It  ran  thus: 

April  15,  1S5-. 
My  Boy:   I  shall  drive  out  next  Thursday  with  a 
party  of  friends  to  spend  the  day  with  you. 
Have  us  a  good  dinner. 

Affectionately,  John  Trevor,  Sr, 

"What  shall  we  do?"  asked  Anne,  helplessly. 
"  Too  early  for  vegetables — Eliza  so  inexperi- 
enced— " 

"  Send  for  Aunt  Dice,"  advised  John,  promptly. 

Aunt  Dice  was  sent  for. 

"Got  many  aigs?"  she  asked,  after  due  ex- 
planations. 

"  Yes,  several  dozen." 

"Then  I'll  make  out.  Kill  me  a  sucking  pig, 
Mos  John,"  she  said,   rising  busily;    "  make  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      6$ 

niggers  seine  fur  fish.  Tell  'em  I  want  a  sof- 
shell  turtle,  sho',  fur  soup.  Gimme  one  o'  your 
fattes'  hens,  Miss  Anne,  an'  that'll  do  fur  meat. 
Git  out  your  bes'  table  kiver,  your  gol'  ban' 
chany,  ole  mistis  giv'  you,  an'  see  ef  your  silver 
needs  a  shine." 

Thus  strengthened,  the  work  progressed.  Aunt 
Dice  flitted  hither  and  thither,  retarded  only  by 
the  persistent  attendance  of  John  Trevor,  who  en- 
joyed the  pleasant  bustle.  "  He's  the  wust  sp'iled 
boy  I  knows  of,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "You'll 
have  to  humor  him  all  your  days,  Miss  Anne." 

Thursday  came,  and  with  it  the  guests.  Aunt 
Dice  surveyed  the  table  with  some  pride.  The 
sucking  pig  lay  roasted  whole,  with  a  rosy  apple 
in  his  mouth;  the  fat  hen,  garnished  with  parsley 
and  boiled  eggs,  was  brown  and  juicy;  the  turtle 
soup,  excellent;  the  salads,  fish,  and  potatoes, 
perfect.  Crimson  jellies  and  amber  wine  gleamed 
rich  and  warm  with  the  burnished  silver  and  sweet 
spring  flowers.  Strong  black  coffee,  served  in  tiny 
cups,  was  sent  to  the  pleasant  drawing-room. 

John  Trevor,  Sr.,  recognized  a  good  dinner. 
Before  his  departure  he  sought  Aunt  Dice,  bent 
on  the  usual  "  tipping,"  a  custom  of  the  times. 
"Aunt  Dice,"  he  said  kindly,  tendering  her  a 
shining  coin,  "  you  gave  us  a  good  dinner,  a 
good  dinner,  ma'am.  You  are  an  excellent  cook, 
I  see." 

"  Thanky,  suh,"  said  Aunt  Dice,  drawing  up  her 
lips;  "  but  I  never  'ceive  money,  suh,  fur  duty." 


64  aunt  dice: 

"Take  your  money,  madam!  "  roared  the  as- 
tonished visitor,  tossing  the  coin  on  the  floor  and 
retiring  somewhat  discomfited.  "Zounds!  Mv 
son,  it  seems  you  have  an  aristocrat  in  your 
kitchen." 

"An  aristocrat  indeed,  father!"  laughed  John 
Trevor.     "A  true  blue-blooded  patrician." 

It  was  ever  a  rule  with  Aunt  Dice  to  make  or  earn 
her  own  living:  she  kept  her  fowls  and  received  a 
steady  income  for  her  fancy  cookery  at  the  coun- 
try stores.  Beyond  the  many  presents  bestowed 
upon  her,  which  she  accepted  with  a  grateful 
pride,  her  whole  life  was  spent  for  others,  "  with- 
out money  and  without  price." 

During  the  next  fall  Aunt  Dice  was  sent  for 
on  quite  a  different  errand — to  the  bedside  of  a 
sick  slave.  Charity,  the  laundress  of  the  family, 
was  ill — stout,  able-bodied  Charity,  who  laughed 
and  sang  over  her  tubs  and  ironing  table,  but 
who  never  found  time  to  consider  the  possible 
failure  of  strength  or  the  ending  of  life.  She 
was  sick  unto  death,  Aunt  Dice  knew  from  the 
first.  She  watched  the  young  master  keenlv. 
He  was  attentive,  skillful  as  a  physician;  but 
would  he  nurse  a  sick  slave  as  tenderly  as  her 
kind  old  master  had  done?  One  night  she  went 
quietly  to  his  room,  where  he  sat  reading:  "  Mos 
John,  Charity's  dyin',  an'  she's — afeard.  Can't 
you  send  to  Miss  Kath'rine's  fur  the  preacher?" 

"  He  is  not  at  home,  Aunt  Dice,"  he  said,  rising; 
"  I  will  do  what  I  can." 


THE    STORY   OF   A   FAITHFUL    SLAVE.  -65 

"You?"  She  eyed  him  doubtfully  as  he  took 
up  a  Bible  from  the  table. 

"  Come  on." 

"Turn  them  niggers  out,  Mos  John,"  she  said 
as  they  entered  the  cabin. 

John  Trevor  sternly  ordered  out  a  crowd  of  ne- 
gro women,  who  for  hours  had  been  chanting  and 
moaning-  over  the  wages  of  sin  and  the  eternal 
damnation  of  the  sinner. 

Charity  lay,  with  wild,  fear-stricken  eyes,  tossing, 
turning,  muttering  over  and  over  the  pleading  cry, 
"  I'se  'feard  to  die,  Mos  John  !  I'se  'feard  to  die  !" 

John  Trevor  sat  by  her  bedside,  and  talked  to 
her  quietly  of  the  Saviour's  love,  his  plenteous  re- 
demption and  free  grace;  he  knelt  beside  her,  and 
poured  out  an  earnest  prayer  for  peace,  for  the 
seal  of  divine  forgiveness.  But  the  wild  eyes  gazed 
on  him  hopelessly;  the  restless  head  tossed  over 
the  pillow.  The  horror  of  death  enveloped  her. 
The  master  opened  the  Bible  and  read  to  her, 
words  of  life,  of  wonderful  promises,  and  of  sure 
fulfillment.  He  sang  to  her,  in  rich,  full  tones, 
songs  of  redeeming  love.  Still  the  dving  negress 
moaned  and  prayed  in  despair.  Again  the  master 
knelt,  pleading,  struggling,  persevering,  holding 
up  the  promises  on  which  he  had  built  his  faith. 

Aunt  Dice,  sitting  quietly  by  the  hearth,  looked 
at  him  inquiringly.  "Will  you  give  it  up?"  the 
mute  glance  said. 

"Until  morning  light,  Aunt  Dice,"  the  master 
answered,  turning  to  the  bed  with  a  firm  resolve 
5 


66  aunt  dice: 

on  his  boyish  face,  as  if  he  had  said,  as  Jacob  did, 
"  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  except  thou  bless  me." 

Aunt  Dice  listened  reverently,  though  not  with- 
out an  amazed  surprise,  as  the  young  master  held 
up  before  the  dying  slave  a  crucified  Redeemer — 
his  boundless  love  and  mercy,  his  wonderful  power. 
Could  this  be  the  gay,  fun-loving  young  physician 
into  whose  care  she  had  almost  feared  to  trust  the 
child  of  her  rearing?  Could  this  earnest  watcher 
by  the  bedside  be  the  boy  of  a  short  year  ago, 
whom  she  had  questioned  so  seriously?  A  beauti- 
ful light  was  shining  in  his  eyes,  grown  suddenly 
so  dear  to  her.  Words  fell  from  his  lips  in  strange 
eloquence.  Aunt  Dice  had  a  higher  conception 
of  the  Wonderful  One  that  night  than  she  had  ever 
had  before.  She  listened  surprisedly,  and  with 
quickened  pulses,  as  he  told  of  living  waters — of 
springs  in  the  wilderness  and  streams  in  the  desert. 

Through  the  long  hours  of  the  night  the  master 
pleaded,  prayed,  sang,  battling  against  death  itself 
for  a  purchased  soul.  The  negress  lay  at  last  with 
her  eyes  upon  his  face,  listening,  feeding  upon  the 
words  of  life.  The  restless  tossing  ceased.  The 
master  sang,  in  clear,  full  tones — tones  that  since 
have  soothed  many  a  dying  pillow: 

"Are  not  thy  mercies  large  and  free? 
May  not  a  sinner  trust  in  thee?" 

A  look  of  peace  stole  over  the  dying  face.  He 
sang  again,  softly: 

"Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 

Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are." 


THE   STORY  CF   A   FAITHFUL    SLAVE.  6"J 

There  was  a  flash  of  light,  a  cry  of  joy:  "  Free, 
Mos  John  !     I'm  free — free  ! ' ' 

The  sunlight  touched  the  chimney  tops  at  Beech- 
wood,  gilded  the  cabin  walls  of  the  quarters,  as  the 
soul  of  the  slave,  in  a  transport  of  joy,  sped  out  on 
the  wings  of  the  morning. 

Aunt  Dice  laid  her  rough,  dark  hand  on  the 
master's  head:  "  Thar— thar — Mos  John;  you've 
done  'nough.     Come  up  to  the  house,  an'  rest." 

She  entered  the  room  where  the  young  wife  lay, 
listening. 

"  Git  up  f'om  thar,  Miss  Anne  !  "  she  said  sharp- 
ly. "Why  ain't  you  had  Mos  John  a  cup  o'  hot 
coffee?  O,  chile!  "  she  cried,  breaking  into  con- 
vulsive sobbing,  as  she  noticed  the  tear-wet  pil- 
low, "he'll  do — Mos  John'll  do — ye  needn't  never 
be  afeard." 

Mos  John  had  "  passed  "  with  her  that  night. 


CHAPTER  IX 


HE  old  conservative  South  had  many  virtues 
to  call  her  own.  Not  the  least  of  these  was 
the  purity  of  her  religion.  Her  old  aris- 
tocracy, her  highborn  dames  and  courtly  men, 
thought  it  no  concession  to  honor  the  world's  Re- 
deemer.  In  this  respect  the  South  may  still  be 
called  conservative.  While  she  fills  her  homes  with 
products  of  northern  thrift  and  invention,  while  she 
brightens  her  firesides  with  periodicals  of  north- 
ern literary*  excellence,  her  libraries,  which  still 
honor  the  well-worn  volumes  of  Bacon,  Shakes- 
peare, Bunyan,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,  are  subser- 
vient to  and  ever  as  things  apart  from  the  Bible, 
whose  living  truths  are  accepted  from  cover  to 
cover. 

Aunt  Dice  was  comforted.  "  Mos  John'll  al- 
ius be  faithful,"  she  said.  She  felt  that  her  young 
mistress  was  safe  in  his  care.  Her  own  £rand- 
children,  the  motherless  ones,  would  still  look 
up  to  a  kind  master.  These  three  grandchildren, 
who  were  part  of  Anne  Trevor's  marriage  por- 
tion, were  contented  and  happy  at  Beech  wood. 
Eliza,  the  eldest,  was  quiet  and  true,  much  like  her 
honored  grandmother ;  Julia  was  tall,  strong,  and 
willing;  while  Pet — still  a  spoiled  pet — was  very 
fat  and  saucy,  very  good-natured,  and  very  de- 
linquent in  her  dutv  sometimes. 
(68) 


THE   STORY  OF  A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  69 

The  years  passed  on.  The  "children"  pros- 
pered. The  olive  branches  grew.  Aunt  Dice 
shared  with  her  mistress  the  honors  of  grand- 
mother, and  visited  back  and  forth,  always  a  dis- 
tinguished guest,  and  always  a  welcome  home- 
comer.  The  mistress,  who  now  seldom  left  River- 
side, leaned  upon  her  trusted  servant.  The  young 
master  was  still  the  darling  of  Aunt  Dice's  heart. 
The  negroes  were  happy  in  the  quarters.  Char- 
ley's children  played  about  her;  Aunt  Dice  was  at 
peace. 

With  her  advancing  years  a  season  of  rest  was 
a  grateful  respite  to  faithful  Aunt  Dice.  But  the 
serenity  of  her  old  age  was  again  to  be  broken  by 
a  rumor  whose  portentous  meaning  she  little  under- 
stood. A  civil  war  was  threatened,  and  the  gloom 
that  settled  over  the  country  spoke  in  prophecy  of 
a  darker  future. 

Aunt  Dice  had  thought  but  little  of  political 
questions.  She  had  lived  through  the  days  of  ar- 
dent Whigism,  but  had  failed  to  respond  to  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  "  hard-cider  campaign,''  or  anv 
other  campaign  of  political  meaning.  She  had 
heard  of  wars,  certainly.  She  had  a  childish  mem- 
ory of  1S12,  a  dim  report  that  had  reached  her  of 
Indian  warfare  and  troublous  times,  but  the  mis- 
fortunes of  war  she  had  never  realized.  She  had 
seen  some  of  her  neighbors  drill  in  cumbersome 
fashion  for  the  Mexican  war,  and  start  out  on  the 
long  journey  westward  with  much  military-  pomp 
and    display.     She    had    seen    a    remnant    return 


70  aunt  dice: 

from  its  questionable  glory,  wasted  by  disease  or 
toughened  in  experience.  Mexico  was  a  dim, 
distant  land  to  Aunt  Dice — too  far  away  to  hold 
her  sympathy.  Her  little  world  she  counted  with- 
in the  boundary  of  her  blue  Tennessee  hills,  or 
the  twenty-mile  length  of  the  sparkling,  winding 
river,  her  loved  South  Afton. 

A  civil  war,  she  was  told,  meant  much.  She 
pondered  long  over  the  question.  She  studied 
with  a  new  interest  the  portrait  of  General  Winfield 
Scott  which  hung  over  the  dining-room  mantel  at 
Riverside.  Would  Mos  Sam  ever  be  a  stern-faced 
soldier  like  this?  Her  hot-blooded,  imperious 
master,  she  was  sure,  would  be  among  the  first  to 
take  up  arms;  he  who  had  known  no  use  of  arms 
save  his  unerring  rifle  when  he  followed  the  bay- 
ing of  his  hounds  in  his  famous  deer  hunting  in 
the  Barrens.  How  could  she  live  without  Mos 
Sam,  the  light  of  Riverside? 

"We  niggers  is  g'wine  ter  be  free,"  was  the 
whispered  thought  at  the  quarters.  Aunt  Dice 
received  such  comments  with  a  sharp  reprimand 
and  a  sidelong  look  which  invited  no  further  ar- 
gument. But  even  her  strong  will  could  not  quell 
the  rising  spirit  of  freedom  among  the  slaves.  The 
meaning  of  the  war,  so  often  spoken  of  in  sub- 
dued accents  throughout  the  quarters,  dawned 
slowly  upon  her.  It  meant,  to  her  at  least,  the  ruin 
of  Riverside ! 

The  day  came  when  the  master,  answering  the 
call  to  arms,  prepared  to   depart;   a  sad   day   to 


THE    STORY   OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  7 1 

Aunt  Dice,  who  summoned  all  her  stern  compo- 
sure for  this  strange  parting.  He  knocked  at  her 
cabin  door  that  night,  as  she  expected. 

"  Come  in,  Mos  Sam;  tak'  a  cheer."  Her  pipe 
trembled  slightly  in  her  hand. 

The  master  drew  up  his  chair  to  the  hearth, 
where  a  small  fire  of  "chunks"  was  kept  smol- 
'dering  the  summer  through.  He  gave  her  direc- 
tions concerning  the  negroes,  the  growing  cotton 
and  wheat,  and  other  details  of  plantation  affairs. 

"I  un'erstan',  Mos  Sam,"  she  answered. 

He  moved  his  chair  restlessly.  A  shadow, 
which  of  late  had  dimmed  the  luster  of  his  smile, 
rested  sadly  or  his  brow.  Aunt  Dice  smoked  in 
silence. 

"  Miss  Mary  ain't  what  she  wus  sence  Mos  Wil- 
liam died." 

"No?"  sadly. 

"  This  war'll  go  hard  with  her." 

He  turned  with  a  quick,  restless  motion  :  "Watch 
after  her,  Aunt  Dice;   take  care  of  her." 

He  drew  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket,  looked 
over  it  slowly,  and  handed  it  to  Aunt  Dice. 

"Aunt  Dice,  this  gives  you  your  freedom,  if  vou 
should  need  it.  My  mother's  name  is  signed,  and 
my  own.     You  can  use  it  as  you  choose." 

Aunt  Dice  took  the  paper  gingerlv,  between  fin- 
ger and  thumb,  and  laid  it  promptlv  on  the  coals. 

"  You  don't  know  what  may  happen,  Aunt  Dice. 
You  are  never  to  be  sold  again." 

"I'll  hold  my  own;  you  needn't  be  afeard.     I 


72  AUNT   DICE: 

knows  my  business;  Mos  William  tole  me  that 
afore  he  died.  I  b'longs  to  ole  mistis  as  long  as 
she  live — then  I'm  yourn,  'ceptin'  I'm  to  look  after 
the  chillun  when  they's  sick,  or  when  they  needs 
help.  You  needn't  bother  'bout  me.  The  wust 
trubble  is  all  these  nigger  fam'lies  you've  bought 
in  at  the  sale." 

"You  knew  my  father's  request,  Aunt  Dice — 
they  were  not  to  be  sold  or  divided  unwillingly." 

"That's  so.  You  wus  to  buy  in  all  who  wus 
onwillin'  to  be  'vided  out,  an'  more'n  plenty  wus 
onwillin'  enuff  to  make  a  putty  big  debt — what 
ain't  paidjyzV." 

"  Riverside  will  soon  cancel  it,  Aunt  Dice." 

"But  stop,  Mos  Sam.  Mos  William  didn't 
know  'bout  this  war  a-comin'  on.  You'd  sho'  be 
ruined  if  the  ni^rrers  wus  sot  free." 

"Aunt  Dice,"  flashed  the  young  master,  "do 
you  mean  to  say  the  South  will  be  whipped?" 

"  I  jes'  mean — I  don'  know,"  said  Aunt  Dice, 
sorrowfully.  She  "leaned  over  the  coals,  her  head 
showing  silvery  in  the  faint  light.  There  was  a 
pathetic  droop  about  her  shoulders,  an  old  look  in 
her  bent  form. 

"  Cheer  up,  Granny  Vic,"  said  the  master,  turn- 
ing upon  her  the  warmth  of  his  sunny  smile. 
"  This  war  will  soon  be  over;  then  for  a  merry 
wedding  at  Riverside !  You  shall  rule  master, 
mistress,  niggers,  and  all." 

"Who  is  it,  Mos  Sam?"  she  asked,  com- 
posedly. 


THE   STOHY  OF  A  FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  73 

"  The  little  girl  who  minces  when  she  walks, 
who  fidgets  in  church,  and  giggles  incessantly." 

Aunt  Dice's  long  lip  quivered,  swung  back  and 
forth,  and  dropped  with  the  senseless  stupor  of  a 
slobbering  horse,  finishing  with  a  smirk,  a  giggle, 
so  successfully  imitating  the  "  little  girl"  in  ques- 
tion that  the  cabin  rang  with  the  master's  laugh- 
ter. 

"  Oh  well,  Aunt  Dice,  the  one-hundred-and-fifty- 
pounder,  who  rides  neck-to-neck  with  Fleetfoot, 
and  is  always  '  in  at  the  death  '  in  a  fox  chase." 

"  Too  bold  an'  for'ard,  Mos  Sam — too  bold  an' 
for'ard,  fur  Mos  William's  son,"  she  said,  stern- 
ly. There  was  silence.  Aunt  Dice  resumed  her 
smoking. 

"  Why  not  some  o'  your  neighbor  gals — they're 
all  likely." 

"  Indeed  they  are — and  worthy,"  said  the  mas- 
ter. 

Aunt  Dice  looked  stolidly  at  the  fire.  Her  calm 
indifference  betrayed  no  hint  of  curiosity. 

'•Aunt  Dice,  what  about  the  girl  with  the  sweet, 
proud  look?  " 

"Thar!  I  knowed  it  was  a-comin' ;  I  knowed 
it.  She's  a  good  'oman,  Mos  Sam — a  fine  'oman. 
I've  seen  her  time  an'  ag'in  at  Beechwood.  She'll 
make  a  likely  mistis  fur  Riverside — one  you'll  be 
proud  of." 

Mos  Sam  whistled  softly,  a  shadow  chasing  away 
the  sunshine  of  his  smile.  After  all,  Riverside 
may  never  know  the  woman  of  his  choice  as  its 


74  aunt  dice: 

fair  mistress.  His  own  life  may  be  offered  up  on 
a  battlefield,  his  body  uncoffined,  his  very  name 
unknown  in  a  strange  land.  "  Good-night,  Aunt 
Dice,"  he  said,  at  length,  turning  to  the  door. 

"  Mos  Sam?"  Aunt  Dice  considered  that  she 
had  always  found  a  cheerful  word  to  lighten  a 
heavy  heart.  Her  boy  should  not  leave  her  door 
without  the  memory  of  a  smile.  "  I've  alius  been 
ag'in  your  fightin'  as  a  boy,"  she  continued,  "  but 
ef  you  sees  that  Yankee  school-teacher,  you  may 
whup  him — wunst." 

"All  right,  Granny  Vic!"  laughed  the  master. 
"  I'll  thrash  him  for  your  sake." 

Next  morning  the  master  stood  on  the  lawn  with 
his  faithful  servant,  ready  for  his  departure ;  a 
bright  June  morning,  when  Riverside  looked  her 
fairest:  the  old  home  smiling  from  her  cool  gal- 
leries and  shady  maples ;  her  pastures  dotted  with 
sheep  and  cattle,  and  tinkling  with  sounds  of  peace ; 
her  gardens  abloom  with  roses,  and  the  river  shim- 
mering and  dreaming  at  her  feet !  The  group  of 
negroes  in  the  background  did  not  detract  from 
the  picture,  though  their  wails  mingled  with  the 
deep-mouthed  baying  of  the  master's  hounds,  who 
were  soon  to  forget  the  music  of  his  hunting  horn. 

But  the  master,  whose  keen  eye  had  taken  in 
his  surroundings  at  a  glance,  now  lingered  under 
the  maples  with  a  restless  tread,  the  strained  pres- 
sure of  his  lips  revealing  only  a  hard  white  line 
about  his  mouth.  He  little  heeded  the  glorious 
beauty  of   Riverside.     His   hounds  fawned  upon 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE. 


75 


him,  unnoticed.  The  group  of  friends,  the  grief- 
stricken  faces  of  his  sisters — Anne  and  Katherine 
— the  kindly  sympathy  in  John  Trevor's  eyes,  he 
did  not  see;  he  only  saw  a  delicate  figure  gowned 
in  gray  standing  on  the  gallery,  whose  hair  shone 
with  faint  gleams  of  silver  through  the  soft  muslin 
cap. 

In  this  supreme  moment  the  questions  of  state 
or  country  seemed  strangely  small  beside  the  little 
mother  who  stood  before  him,  mighty  in  her  love; 
the  little  mother  within  whose  arms  all  his  child- 
ish griefs  and  pains  had  been  rocked  to  sleep. 
Friend  and  foe  were  alike  to  him  for  the  while — 
unworthy  of  a  touch  of  her  garments.  Not  even 
the  memory  of  a  fair,  proud  face  intruded  upon 
this  sacred  parting  which  tried  the  souls  of  mother 
and  son;  a  parting  which  she  mercifully  short- 
ened by  turning  quietly  into  her  room  without 
even  a  mother's  caress,  lest  the  action  prove  too 
strong  a  test  of  her  fortitude,  or  weaken  the  cour- 
age of  her  soldier  boy.  The  quick  splashing  of 
horses'  feet  crossing  the  river  cut  the  air  with  a 
sickening  sense  of  grief  and  loss. 

Aunt  Dice  was  left  the  central  figure  of  the 
thronging  group  of  slaves,  her  tears  on  her  dusky 
cheeks,  the  sunlight  on  her  gray  head,  and  a  new 
care  in  her  heart,  for  the  master  had  said  at  part- 
ing, "Aunt  Dice,  I  leave  to  you  my  mother  and 
my  home." 


CHAPTER  X. 


YEAR  passed  slowly.  The  mistress, 
who  had  so  bravely  hung  up  her  blue 
chintz  gowns  and  donned  the  colors  of 
ler  son,  seemed  to  falter  through  the  long  silence 
which  brought  no  news  of  him.  She  followed 
Aunt  Dice  about  like  a  shadow,  which  often  sent 
the  faithful  watcher  to  her  cabin  in  hot  haste  for 
a  troubled  smoke  and  a  struggle  for  fortitude. 

"Aunt  Dice,  can  you   bring  your  knitting  and 
sit  with  me  awhile  at  night?  " 

"To  be  sho'  I  kin.  What's  to  hender  me?" 
Aunt  Dice  never  knew  how  she  smiled  or 
brought  herself  to  gossip,  and  tell  her  "silly 
nothings,"  as  they  sat  together  at  night,  knitting 
socks  for  "  rebel"  soldiers;  she  never  knew  how 
she  changed  from  a  decisive,  short-spoken  woman 
to  a  loquacious,  ceaseless  talker;  she  only  knew 
that  she  had  gained  her  end  when  rewarded  by  a 
patient  smile.  She  discussed  the  weather,  the 
flight  of  wild  geese,  the  soap-making,  the  spinning 
and  weaving,  the  young  calves,  the  spring  lambs; 
she  talked  of  old,  old  times,  of  far-away  memo- 
ries— anything  and  everything  but  the  children, 
lest  the  thought  bring  up  the  absent  boy,  whose 
name  was  never  mentioned.  She  searched  the 
place  for  an  atom  of  news.  '*  Ole  Topknot's  in 
(76) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      77 

fur  anuther  settin'  spell.  Sousin'  in  the  river 
don'  do  no  good,  so  I  sot  her  on  goose  aigs; 
she'll  git  settin'  'nough  now  fur  a  spell,  I  reck'n. 
Topknots  ain't  noted  fur  sense.  The  mockin' 
birds  is  splittin'  they  throats ;  they's  feelin'  the 
springtime" — she  would  say,  to  tempt  her  mis- 
tress out  into  the  soft  April  sunshine;  or,  "The 
dogwood's  blossomin'  an'  the  redbud  in  the  hills 
•— 'tain't  long  afore  spring."  Still  the  frail,  tired 
body  faded  slowly. 

"  Remember  my  poor,  Aunt  Dice,"  the  mis- 
tress said  one  day;  and  then  the  faithful  watcher 
knew  that,  with  all  her  care,  her  multiplied  words 
and  cheerful  encouragement  had  been  in  vain. 
John  Trevor  was  her  help  and  comfort;  he  gave 
to  Riverside  all  the  time  that  his  growing  practice 
and  growing  family  would  admit.  But  all  the 
tenderness  of  faithful  friends  could  not  avail. 
Before  the  close  of  spring  the  gentle  soul  of  the 
mistress  went  out,  to  know  no  sad  to-morrow  of 
that  gloomv  time.  Aunt  Dice  stood  alone— ter- 
ribly  alone !  Shocked,  amazed  at  the  magnitude 
of  her  duty,  but  one  thought  spurred  her  on — the 
thought  of  her  master. 

"Mos  Sam  is  ruined,"  Aunt  Dice  said,  as 
she  closed  the  doors  of  Riverside,  after  the 
sad  funeral.  The  negroes  no  longer  made  a 
show  of  submission.  Riverside  was  burdened 
with  debt  and  crowded  with  rebellious  slaves; 
a  turbulent  spirit  had  risen  among  them,  which 
Aunt  Dice  found  impossible  to  quell.      She  man- 


78  aunt  dice: 

aged  with  difficulty  to  till  the  hind  and  gather 
the  crop.  A  new  suspicion  filled  her  with  dread. 
Charley,  her  own  son,  whose  purchase  money 
had  swelled  the  debt  of  Riverside,  was  dictatorial, 
rebellious,  a  disturbing  element  in  the  quarters. 
She  upbraided  him  sternly;  she  commanded,  im- 
plored, entreated,  but  an  angry,  sullen  look  was 
the  only  response.  She  pointed  to  a  tall  marble 
shaft  which  shone  solemnly  from  the  cemetery: 
"  Fur  Mos  William's  sake,  Charley,  don'  leave 
Mos  Sam." 

"  G'way  f'om  here,  mammy ;  lemme  'lone.  I'm 
g'wine  to  Nashvul,  /  is,  an'  be  a  free  genTmun. 
I'll  tote  fur  no  man  f'om  dis  here  on." 

Her  pleading  was  vain.  Charley's  cabin  was 
empty  one  morning.     Aunt  Dice  was  bereft. 

Thus  her  lonjr  watch  bejran.  She  saw  the  ne- 
groes  depart,  slaves  no  longer,  swelling  day  after 
dav  the  number  of  them  who  had  "run  off  to  the 
Yankees."  But  the  glory  of  Riverside  had  also  de- 
parted. She  saw  the  old  home  shorn  of  its  beauty; 
the  fences  were  burned,  the  barns  emptied,  the  cat- 
tle, horses,  and  sheep  driven  off  or  slaughtered  ;  the 
home  of  her  beloved  mistress  desecrated  and  pil- 
laged under  the  cruel  ravages  of  war.  Even  the 
tall  clock  in  the  dining-room  corner,  which  had 
ticked  in  and  out  the  happy  years  of  Riverside's 
prosperity,  stood  with  a  white,  dismayed  face,  its 
glass  doors  shattered,  its  pendulum  crushed  and 
broken,  its  faithful  hands  ruthlessly  torn  from  their 
place  of  duty;   the  old  clock,  which  had  rung  in 


THE    STORY  OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  79 

the  births,  chimed  at  the  weddings,  and  tolled  out 
the  deaths  at  Riverside,  stared  now  from  its  corner 
like  a  human  thing  bereft  of  a  soul ! 

Aunt  Dice  heard  nothing  of  the  master;  still  her 
lonely  watch  went  on,  and  she  said  to  herself  some- 
times as  a  sad  refrain:  "  Mos  Sam,  3-ou're  ruined 
— you're  ruined  !  "  The  long  winters  passed;  the 
dull  "wash-wash"  of  the  river  sounded  on  her 
listening  ears.  The  summers  came  and  went;  the 
whippoorwills  called  from  the  cemetery,  the  mock- 
ing birds  trilled  in  the  maples,  the  river  murmured 
like  a  friend  at  her  feet — still  the  master  came  not. 
News  of  him  floated  to  her  at  last  between  the  si- 
lences: Mos  Sam  was  a  brave  soldier — was  cap- 
tain of  a  company — was  wounded — in  prison  ;  then 
she  heard  no  more. 

Once  only  did  her  heart  fail.  A  squad  of  Con- 
federate soldiers  passing  by  one  day  saw  a  pathetic 
fiirure  standing1  over  the  bluff,  beckoning  to  them. 

ilWhar  is  Mos  Sam?"  she  quavered,  thinking 
in  her  innocent  soul  that  all  the  world  should  know 
"Mos  Sam." 

"Dead!"  "killed!"  "shot!"  came  back  to 
her  in  a  rude,  laughing  chorus. 

"  I  jes'  whooped  an'  hollered  all  night,"  she  said 
to  a  kind  neighbor,  who  reassured  her. 

Her  fidelity  did  not  go  unquestioned.  Her  own 
color  eyed  her  askance  as  a  friend  to  the  "  reb- 
els." Among  her  white  neighbors  some  looked 
on  her  with  suspicion,  as  possiblv  harboring  Fed- 
erals;  she  was  accordingly  visited  by  a  companv 


8o  aunt  dice: 

of  blue-coated  soldiers,  who  threatened  her  with 
fire,  steel,  and  ugly  army  pistols  if  she  did  not  dis- 
close to  them  the  hiding  place  of  some  "  rebels  "in 
the  vicinity.  But  her  stern  old  eyes  did  not  quaih 
She  knew  not  the  meaning  of  "  martyr  "  ;  she  had 
never  heard  of  a  "noble  Roman";  but  her  one 
lesson  of  faithfulness  she  had  learned  well.  The 
soldiers  passed  over  the  river  with  a  rousing  cheer 
for  Aunt  Dice;  then  she  realized  sadly  that  she 
had  been  under  trial. 

Still  she  sowed  her  scanty  seed  and  reaped  her 
shattered  harvests.  The  little  worn  path  over  the 
bluff  by  the  river  told  of  her  weekly  visits  to  the 
nearest  store,  where  she  sold  her  chickens  and. 
eggs;  told  also  of  as  many  visits  to  the  cemetery, 
where,  on  these  errands,  it  was  her  habit  to  sit  and 
rest,  alone  with  her  dead.  Years  before  she  had 
planted  in  an  oblong  circle  about  Csesar's  grave 
those  early  harbingers  of  spring — golden  candle- 
sticks— which,  when  aflame  in  early  March,  lit  up 
the  somber  cedars,  and  made  a  glorious  altarpiece 
of  the  simple  headstone.  Here  she  rested  on  her 
weekly  -journeys. 

Aunt  Dice  realized  at  last  that  the  end  of  the 
great  civil  war  was  near — a  disastrous  ending  for 
the  South,  but  peace  was  none  the  less  welcome. 
The  golden  candlesticks  had  bloomed  again  around 
Caesars  grave  when  the  blessed  news  came — the 
long  war  was  over. 

Where  was  Mos  Sam?  How  she  scraped  and 
saved  and  hoarded  !     How  she  watched  and  waited 


THE   STORY  OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  Si 

in  the  silence !      How  she  hoped  and  feared  and 
prayed  in  the  solitude  of  her  lonely  cabin ! 

But  the  master  rode  in  quietly  one  night  in  the 
light  of  the  young  moon,  stabled  his  Yankee  mare, 
climbed  the  rickety  fence  by  the  deserted  quarters, 
and  looked  over  his  desolate  home.  The  river 
murmuring  below,  the  lazy  "  swish-swish  "  of  her 
waters  against  the  rocks,  were  the  only  sounds  that 
greeted  him.  At  length  a  familiar  figure  came 
slowly  down  the  path,  with  bowed  head,  and  hands 
folded  behind  her.  "Aunt  Dice!  "  he  called  soft- 
ly. She  looked  up  quickly,  knowing  well  the 
square  shoulders  outlined  against  the  twilight  sky; 
then  running  to  him  swiftly,  she  fell  on  her  knees 
at  his  feet,  taking  up  the  old  refrain:  "  Mos  Sam, 
you're  ruined — you're  ruined!  " 

Her  strength  gave  way  at  last;  her  strained 
nerves  relaxed.  She  had  bravely  dared  those 
four  long  years  alone.  Her  trust  was  fulfilled. 
She  continued  sobbing  at  his  feet. 

"Don't  grieve,  Aunt  Dice,"  the   master  said, 
!      sadlv.     "  Your  boy  has  come  back  to  you,  and  he 
is  half  starved." 

Aunt  Dice  listened.  She  had  heard  complaints 
of  a  half-starved  boy  before,  though  never  so  sad- 
ly as  this.  She  dried  her  tears  suddenly.  She 
hoarded  her  sweet  surprise.  "  Nuthin'  in  the 
house  fitten'  fur  you  to  eat,  Mos  Sam — nuthin'  but 
a  piece  o'  co'n  bread." 

"  Give  me  one  of  your  good,  brown  corn  pones, 
Aunt  Dice,"  said  the  master,  cheerfully. 
G 


82  aunt  dice: 

She  followed  him  to  the  house,  unlocked  the 
doors,  brought  him  cool  water  from  the  great 
spring  under  the  bluff;  and  while  he  looked  over 
the  silent  rooms — so  strangely  silent,  without  a 
mother's  welcome — Aunt  Dice  prepared  her  sur- 
prise, for  which  she  had  lived  on  husks !  She  had 
lonjj  waited  for  this  hour.  With  deft  hands  and 
springing  step  she  flitted  back  and  forth,  from 
kitchen  to  dining  room,  grown  young  again  in  her 
great  joy.  Her  dear  old  eyes,  dim  with  watching, 
shone  bright  through  happy  tears. 

And  such  a  repast !  Corn  pones,  brown  enough ; 
but  such  flaky  biscuits,  such  fragrant  coffee;  and 
chicken,  fried  a  delicate  brown  !  She  did  not  stop 
to  consider  or  even  conjecture  what  stint  and  fru- 
gality, under  the  prevailing  prices,  brought  forth 
these  treasures  of  coffee,  lard,  and  flour.  She 
poured  the  coffee,  waiting  upon  her  master,  watch- 
ing him,  who  ate  as  if  all  those  pent-up  years  of 
hunger  and  starvation  were  requited  in  that  one 
meal ! 

Nor  was  this  all.  After  she  had  built  a  fire  in 
the  late  mistress's  room,  where  the  little  armchair 
beckoned  silently  from  its  corner — which  room 
was  to  be  from  henceforth  Mos  Sam's  own,  with 
all  its  sacred  memories — Aunt  Dice  laid  out  be- 
fore the  master  various  articles  of  dress,  sorelv 
needed  by  him,  saying,  with  characteristic  brevity: 
"  The  chillun  holped  me.  Miss  Kath'rine  made 
the  clo'es,  Miss  Anne  the  shurts.  Mos  John  giv' 
you  the  boots — they  cos'  fifty  dollars." 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      8$ 

"Why,  Aunt  Dice,  what  a  fortune!"  the  mas- 
ter said,  delightedly.  "  I  shall  be  a  gentleman 
again — not  a  poor  'Johnny  Reb'" — stroking  his 
ragged,  gray  sleeve — "  poor  'Johnny  Reb  !  ' 

Aunt  Dice  looked  at  her  master  with  some  as- 
perity. She  had  fed  many  a  tramp  who  looked 
more  decent.  "  I've  sot  your  bath  tub  at  the 
door,"  she  said,  in  the  old  tone  of  command. 
"  Th'ow  them  rags  in  the  fire,  Mos  Sam.  I  never 
thought  Mos  William's  son'd  a  looked  like  that." 
She  turned  to  bid  him  good-night. 

"Aunt  Dice,"  said  the  master,  looking  far  into 
the  flaming  coals,  "I  saw  your  Yankee  school- 
master." 

"Did  you  whup  him?"  she  asked,  quickly. 
Her  added  knowledge  of  the  Yankee  had  rather 
stimulated  her  desire  for  this  particular  whipping. 

"  No,"  he  answered  slowly;  "  I  must  say  your 
Yankee  friend  whipped  me." 

Aunt  Dice  looked  at  her  master  in  amazed  in- 
quiry. He  met  her  glance  thoughtfully.  "  I  was 
in  prison,  and  he  visited  me." 

"Thar  now!"  said  Aunt  Dice.  "Well,  I'm 
glad  I  washed  an'  orned  his  clo'es,  an'  domed  all 
his  socks.  I  alius  thought  he  had  a  hankerin' 
a'ter  Miss  Kath'rine!  " 

"I  think  he  liked  her,"  said  the  master,  mus- 
incrlv. 


CHAPTER  XL 

HROUGHOUT  the  year  the  table  was  sup- 
plied, the  master  knew  not  how;  not  poor- 
ly or  sparingly  kept,  but  almost  with  the 
generous  excellency  of  former  days.  The  master 
little  dreamed  of  the  struggle  as,  weak  from  recent 
wounds,  he  built  fences,  or  plowed  his  Yankee 
mare  beside  a  venerable  riding-horse  which  was 
once  his  mother's.  Too  proud  to  acknowledge 
that  she  lived  by  her  wits,  Aunt  Dice  smuggled  to 
the  country  store  her  chickens,  eggs,  and  butter, 
her  fancy  cookies  and  gingerbread,  so  that  her 
slender  purse  held  out  as  did  the  proverbial  meal 
barrel. 

Yet  the  year  was  a  happy  one.  It  was  her  pleas- 
ure to  labor  with  unceasing  thrift  to  provide  these 
luxuries;  her  pride  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  the 
upbuilding  of  her  master's  broken  fortunes.  It 
was  a  happy  year,  notwithstanding  the  new  burden 
of  debt  which  lay  heavily  upon  the  master.  He 
was  forced  to  borrow  a  sufficient  sum  to  build  up 
the  waste  places,  to  buy  grain  and  stock,  and  for 
the  additional  expense  of  hire — a  new  experience 
for  the  impoverished  southerner.  His  impatient 
soul  chafed  under  the  fretting  weight.  "What 
shall  I  do,  Aunt  Dice?  "  he  asked  one  day,  in  an 
extremity  of  doubt  and  distress. 

Aunt  Dice  glanced  at  him  quickly  and  started 
(84) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      S5 

in  a  swift  trot  for  her  cabin.  A  new  problem  this 
for  her  sixty-sixth  year !  She  smoked  her  faithful 
pipe  while  she  studied.  What  was  to  be  done? 
Sell  Riverside?  Oh  no!  She  pondered,  ques- 
tioned, considered.  After  all  there  was  but  one 
way,  she  concluded,  as  she  laid  her  pipe  on  the 
shelf.  She  went  back  cheerfully.  "  Shoulder 
your  debts,  Mos  Sam;  you  can't  shift  'em.  Go 
'long  now  to  work.  Go  'long,  les'n  you  don't 
want  no  br'iled  chicken  an''  waffles  fur  supper." 

Mos  Sam  was  comforted,  somehow. 

At  this  time  a  message  from  Joe  Cris,  who  was 
earning  a  precarious  living  by  basket-making  near 
Nashville,  startled  Aunt  Dice  into  remembrance 
of  her  painful  past.  He  sent  her  his  humble  re- 
gards; also  an  invitation  to  share  with  him  his 
home  and  small  living.  Aunt  Dice  spurned  the 
offer  with  contempt,  and  returned  a  sharp  an- 
swer, with  the  significant  question,  "  Is  you  a  fool?" 
For  this  Aunt  Dice  mav  have  been  censured.  In- 
deed, it  was  evident  that  she,  who  had  ever  been 
so  responsive  to  the  slightest  call  of  duty,  was 
strangely  delinquent  in  the  obligations  of  her  sec- 
ond marriage.  But  her  conscience  in  this  respect 
was  a  matter  of  education.  Tutored  in  her  one 
school  of  faithfulness — that  of  allegiance  to  her 
white  people — she  scorned  all  persuasion,  advan- 
tageous or  otherwise,  to  leave  her  beloved  River- 
side. Perhaps,  too,  she  felt  that  she  had  been 
unfairlv  bought.  Toe  Cris  had  no  creat  claim 
upon  her.     Moreover,  in  the  davs  following  their 


86  aunt  dice: 

freedom,  many  of  the  negroes  were  uncertain 
breadwinners.  Improvident  in  summer;  ragged, 
shivering,  or  homeless  in  winter;  they  too  often 
made  a  pitiable  spectacle  of  gaunt  hunger  and 
wretchedness.  The  question  of  bread,  clothing, 
and  shelter  had  a  broader  meaning  than  they 
had  realized.  The  dependent  slaves  found  in 
their  freedom  such  cares  and  responsibilities  that 
robbed  the  word  of  much  of  its  sweetness  and 
flavor.  Many,  chary  of  their  wings,  remained 
within  the  securitv  of  their  former  homes ;  some 
stayed  through  pure  devotion  to  their  masters,  while 
a  large  number,  trained  to  divers  trades,  earned  a 
comfortable  living.  Aunt  Dice  had  small  confi- 
dence in  the  abilitv  of  the  negro,  much  less  would 
she  trust  herself  in  the  keeping  of  one.  Neverthe- 
less, she  made  it  her  duty  to  send  Joe  Cris  gifts  of 
clothing  and  money  as  long  as  he  lived.  Mos  Sam 
needed  her;   she  would  not  leave  him. 

With  the  next  vear's  increase  Riverside  besran 
to  assume  an  ante-bellum  look :  not  with  the  old 
prosperity,  for  loans  and  mortgages  were  the 
questions  of  the  day,  but  the  long  deserted  cabins 
were  peopled  with  dusky  forms,  some  of  whom 
were  former  slaves. 

Aunt  Dice  began  again  her  imperious  rule  and 
discipline.  The  old  fields  crept  into  life.  The 
rolling  uplands  were  covered  in  billowv  wheat. 
The  tinkling  of  sheep  bells  sounded  a  call  of  peace, 
while  the  river  sang  in  her  old  happy  way,  for  the 
master  was  to  bring;-  home  a  bride  in  the  late  fall — 


THE  STORY  OF  A   FAITHFUL    SLAVE.  87 

the  woman  with  the  "sweet,  proud  look,"  whose 
love  had  bidden  him  hope  through  five  dark  years. 
Fortunately  for  Aunt  Dice,  the  soon-to-be  mis- 
tress held  a  high  place  in  her  esteem.  As  the 
time  approached,  she  began  preparations  for  the 
wedding. 

The  day  dawned  cold  and  snowy.  "  Fix  up 
things,  Aunt  Dice,"  said  the  master,  as  he  de- 
parted for  his  twenty-mile  ride  to  Nashville.  She 
needed  no  further  order.  When  the  wedding 
party  returned  she  met  them  on  the  lawn  in  state- 
ly fashion,  her  master's  hounds  having  about  her. 
The  old  home  smiled  with  the  warmth  of  old- 
fashioned  southern  hospitality.  The  hickory  fires 
roared  up  the  chimneys  in  generous  welcome. 
The  long  table  in  the  dining  room  gleamed  and 
glittered  with  the  evidences  that  Aunt  Dice's 
faithful  hands  had  not  lost  their  cunning. 

There  were  eight  long  years  of  quiet  for  River- 
side; years  that  were  golden  with  hope  and  rich 
with  its  promises;  years  of  peace  and  rest  after 
the  turbulent  season  of  war.  Children  played 
again  under  the  maples.  Childish  laughter  rang 
through  the  cool  galleries.  The  new  mistress 
reigned  with  a  queenlv  grace  and  charm  of  man- 
ner that  held  captive  the  esteem  of  all  South  Al- 
ton. Indeed,  the  country  folk  soon  learned  to 
love  the  strange  woman  in  their  midst,  who  was 
so  wondrous  kind  and  sweet. 

Aunt  Dice  never  criticised  her.  She  never 
made  her  mistress  a  subject  of  her  trying  mini- 


88  AUNT   DICE. 

icry,  but  invariably  held  her  up  to  the  numerous 
grandchildren  as  a  model  of  gracious  dignity  and 
charming  womanhood.  But  Mos  Sam  was  still 
the  darling  of  Aunt  Dice's  heart.  To  him  she 
filled  the  office  of  mother  in  more  ways  than  one. 
The  responsibilities  of  this  relation  she  did  not 
shirk.  If  she  thought  he  needed  reproof,  she  was 
quick  and  stern  in  giving  it.  "Git  up  f'om  thar, 
Mos  Sam,  complainin'  of  your  woun's,  an'  wishin' 
ye  had  a  millyun.  Go  to  work.  Money  won't 
walk  to  ye."  Such  rebukes  were  wholesome, 
and  never  out  of  place  in  the  days  when  the  debt 
problem  was  an  unanswered  one  and  a  grievous 
burden  to  the  southern  landowner. 

Aunt  Dice  may  have  saved  her  master  from  a 
fatal  despondency  in  his  straitened  circumstances 
by  her  kindly  words  of  cheer,  or  a  caustic  rebuke 
which  she  covered  adroitly  with  a  quaint  remark, 
sure  to  bring  a  smile;  but  much  more  did  she 
prefer  to  honor  him  with  all  the  doting  fondness 
of  a  mother. 

"Anything in  your  cupboard  forme,  Aunt  Dice?*' 
was  the  frequent  question. 

"Dunno,  Mos  Sam,"  she  would  answer,  almost 
ignoring  the  question;    "  ye'd  better  look." 

He  was  sure  to  find  a  generous  store — whitest 
bread  and  honey,  cold  chicken,  her  famous  pies  and 
cookies,  which  were  noted  for  their  excellence. 

These  were  her  happy  hours.  He  was  all  her  own 
when  he  sat  with  her  in  her  cabin  and  talked  with 
her  of  the  old  times,  the  days  of  her  kind  old  master. 


CHAPTER  XII 


ME  subject  of  the  war  was  a  sore  one  to 
Aunt  Dice.  She  looked  upon  it  as  a  per- 
sonal matter,  deploring  the  thought  that 
tier  own  people  had  caused  the  ruin  of  Riverside — 
had  impoverished  her  dear  young  master.  She 
tried  to  bury  this  sorrow  quietly  as  she  had  bur- 
ied her  other  griefs,  but  she  could  not  order  the 
thoughts  of  her  master  nor  bid  his  bitter  memories 
be  gone.  She  knew  that  the  war  spirit  controlled 
him  when  she  saw  his  restless  pacing  back  and 
forth ;  the  nervous  twitch  of  his  fingers,  as  if  they 
longed  to  draw  a  sword;  the  quick  flash  of  his 
eyes,  as  if  the  vision  of  a  hard-fought  battle  rose 
up  before  him,  or  the  roar  of  cannon  and  musket- 
ry lingered  in  his  ears. 

"  Debt  ain't  all  he's  a  studyin'  over,"  Aunt  Dice 
said.  She  watched  him  as  he  sat  on  the  gallery, 
gazing  with  far-seeing  eyes  across  the  dimpling, 
smiling  river. 

"Aunt  Dice,  I  would  gladlv  fiirht  through  four 
years  more — go  hungry,  ragged ;  sleep  in  snow- 
drifts, by  the  wayside,  anywhere — just  to  trv  the 
whole  thing  over." 

"  Mos  Sam,  let  the  war  go.  "What  good  do  it 
do  to  set  an'  study  over  it?  It's  all  pas'  an'  gone 
now;   make  the  best  of  it." 

(89) 


go  aunt  dice: 

But  the  blood  of  his  comrades,  so  sadly  spilled 
in  vain,  called  to  him  pleadingly.  The  negroes  he 
did  not  care  to  have,  and  would  not  own  again. 
It  was  the  stupendous  failure  of  a  stupendous  un- 
dertaking that  chafed  and  nettled  his  imperious 
nature.  He  felt  whipped.  The  reflection  was 
anything  but  consoling.  In  these  sad  hours  he 
felt  that  he  had  offered  upon  the  altar  of  his  coun- 
try all  that  was  truest  and  best  within  him.  Only 
a  soldier  of  fortune  was  left,  warped  and  frayed 
as  the  clothes  he  wore  home.  He  turned  to  his 
wife  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  and  held  her 
close  in  his  arms.  "  What  can  I  promise  my  Hel- 
en, the  wife  of  a  poor  rebel  soldier?" 

"  This  'poor  rebel  soldier'  is  my  brave  knight," 
she  answered,  smiling. 

These  seasons  of  unrest  were  happily  transient. 
Life  was  still  before  him.  His  winning  smile  and 
genial  manner  still  earned  for  him  the  honored 
title  of  the  "Light  of  Riverside."  The  hired 
"  work  hands  "  in  the  cabins  were  under  the  just 
and  temperate  rule  of  a  kind  "boss,"  a  conven- 
ient substitute  for  the  word  master. 

Aunt  Dice's  three  granddaughters,  after  varied 
experiences,  were  married  and  established  at  Riv- 
erside, where  their  husbands  worked  "  on  shares," 
or  for  wages,  for  their  necessary  food  and  cloth- 
ing. But  Charlev  belonged  to  the  numberless 
horde  of  swarthy  citizens  who  termed  themselves 
the  "  new  niters."  He  had  shaken  the  dust  of 
Riverside  forever  from  his  feet,  save  for  an  occa- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      9 1 

sional  visit  to  his  mother,  whither  he  went  some- 
times in  a  hired  buggy,  with  jaunty  horse  and 
trappings;  sometimes,  however,  riding  a  gaunt, 
bony  mule;  but  more  often  afoot,  ragged,  un- 
kempt, and  hungry.  After  such  visits  Aunt  Dice's 
purse  was  left  in  a  collapsed  state. 

But  the  "new  niggers!"  "Ho,  for  Nash- 
ville!" seemed  to  be  the  watchword  and  cry  of 
liberated  thousands — a  greater  problem  by  far 
than  all  the  debts  and  mortgages  that  covered  the 
sunny  lands  of  Tennessee.  Into  Nashville  they 
poured,  a  living  stream  of  life,  fearfully  free. 
They  swarmed  the  streets,  crowded  the  corners, 
obstructed  the  sidewalks,  while  dainty  ladies 
stepped  aside,  and  white  men  muttered  nameless 
maledictions  through  their  closed  teeth.  Whether 
in  vehicles  or  shining  "  turnouts,"  or  shaky  rattle- 
traps, the  new  negroes  kept  the  center  of  the  road, 
to  see  the  "  white  man  pass  round,"  without  the 
customary  greeting  or  doffing  of  hat  or  cap.  In 
the  depths  of  the  countrv  the  fields  and  woods 
were  strangely  silent.  There  was  a  dearth  of  old- 
time  melodies,  of  feasting  and  revelrv.  The  mu- 
sical calls  and  sound  of  the  sweet  cane  flutes  gave 
place  to  a  new  song,  if  song  it  could  be  called,  re- 
plete with  a  significant  triumph: 

"  Possum  up  a  gum  stump,  coon  up  a  holler, 
I  met  dat  ■white  man,  an'  he  owed  me  a  dollar." 

The  word  "  master,"  too,  had  fallen  into  disuse, 
and  "  Mr.  and  Mrs."  Brown  were  substituted, 
and   rolled  under   tonirues   too  thick  to   conceal  a 


92  aunt  dice: 

malicious    pleasure,  which    stung    the    southerner 
ofttimes  to  quick  resentment. 

Aunt  Dice  knew  at  a  glance  the  fortunate  ones 
who  applied  at  Riverside  for  situations.  The 
master,  who  still,  as  he  gave  them  to  understand, 
was  lord  of  his  own  domain,  kindly  received  the 
applicant  who  stood  before  him  with  bared  head 
and  called  him  "Mos  Sam"  in  the  old-time  way. 
Not  that  he  commanded  or  required  this  humble 
obeisance;  but  knowing  the  negro  well,  he  knew 
the  conservative  ones  to  be  the  most  worthy,  and 
as  such  were  apt  to  be  for  a  generation  or  more 
to  follow. 

When  Archibald,  a  stalwart  youth  of  twenty- 
one — a  former  slave  who  had  been  "  onwillin"  to 
be  'vided  out"  at  the  sale — appeared  at  River- 
side for  a  comfortable  dinner  and  a  possible  job, 
Aunt  Dice  looked  him  over  dubiously.  His  dash- 
ing appearance,  his  display  of  brass  jewelry,  his 
stylishlv  carded  hair,  betokened  little  favor  from 
the  master.  When  about  to  pay  his  "  'spects  to  de 
boss,"  Aunt  Dice -called  out  warningly:  "  Min' 
your  manners,  Arch,  I  tell  you;  min'  your  man- 
ners." 

But  Archibald,  brimful  of  freedom  and  the  im- 
portance of  his  twenty-one  years,  stepped  jaun- 
tily to  the  master's  front  door.  "  Howdy,  Mr. 
Macy.  How's  Mrs.  Macy,  yo'  lady?"  Archi- 
bald felt  a  grip  of  steel  within  his  collar  for  an- 
swer, and  a  kick  which  caused  him  to  measure 
his  length  under  the  maples. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE       93 

"You  might  as  well  go  now,  Arch,"  said  Aunt 
Dice,  quietly  observant  from  the  kitchen.  "  Man- 
ners is  cheap,  an'  might}-  handy  sometimes." 

Aunt  Dice,  under  the  new  order  of  things,  was 
extremely  exclusive  in  her  social  life.     Few  col- 
ored people  she  tolerated,  fewer  still  she  visited; 
on   such    occasions  her   "grand    air"   was    most 
noticeable.     She  still   held  her  membership  with 
her  white    people's    church,    and    condescended 
once  a  year  to  attend  a  colored  congregation  near 
by,  where  their  wild  gestures  and  noisy  worship 
disgusted    and    annoyed    her.     Still   she  was   not 
without  a  certain  interest  in  her  own  race.     She 
deplored  their  failings,  encouraged  every  honest 
effort,  and  lent  a  helping  hand  to   every  worthy 
applicant.     She  might  have  been  what  is  termed 
a  "white  folks'  ni^irer,"  one  who  is  cordiallv  hat- 
ed  and   distrusted   bv  his  own  people,  especially 
as  he  prospers  by  his  white  "  liking."     But  cer- 
tain it  was  that  Aunt  Dice,  bravely  as  she  dared 
their  suspicion,  commanded  the  respect,  if  she  did 
not  gain  the  love,  of  her  colored  acquaintances. 
Born  a  slave,  this  unreconstructed  soul  never  ac- 
knowledged her  freedom,  and  scorned  the  offer 
of  wages  at  the  close  of  the  war.     Feeling  that 
she  belonged  to  her  white  people,  and  almost  one 
of    them,    no    national    proclamation    of   freedom 
swerved   her  allegiance    to   them    for   an  instant. 
Among  her  white  neighbors  she  was  ever  treated 
with  distinguished  regard.     On  her  usual  church 
goings,  or  weekly  visits  to   the  store,   she    never 


94  aunt  dice: 

lacked  attention  and  courtesy  due  a  lady.  In- 
deed, so  honest  was  she  in  all  her  dealings,  so 
well  grounded  in  truth  and  purity  of  character, 
that  no  instance  was  ever  known  when  her  self- 
respect  went  begging. 

The  new  mistress  was  not  slow  to  learn  the 
value  of  Aunt  Dice  as  friend  and  adviser;  nor 
did  she  hesitate  to  accept  her  companionship  as  a 
boon  at  lonely  Riverside.  Aunt  Dice's  afternoon 
nap  was  an  unvarying  rule  of  the  house — an  hour 
which  the  mistress  found  to  be  irksome  waiting, 
as  she  was  usually  favored  with  an  afternoon  call, 
now  that  the  spinning  wheels  were  silent,  and  lei- 
sure hours  numerous.  The  sight  of  Aunt  Dice's 
homely,  squat  figure,  as  she  sat  on  the  low  door- 
step with  her  fragrant  pipe,  was  a  pleasant  one  to 
the  mistress,  who  began  to  look  forward  to  these 
daily  visits.  Aunt  Dice,  coming  up  the  path  from 
her  cabin,  often  saw  the  stately  figure  of  her  mis- 
tress pacing  the  length  of  the  gallery,  and  heard 
her  clear,  rich  tones  greeting  her:  "Aunt  Dice, 
how  long  your  naps  are !  I  have  been  waiting  an 
hour  or  more  for  you." 

"Well,  you  wus  in  a  hurry,"  Aunt  Dice  would 
say  composedly,  seating  herself  on  the  step,  and 
watching  the  mistress's  delicate  hands  flash  in  and 
out  with  her  dainty  lace-making.  Perhaps  the 
lovely  lady  of  Riverside  was  lonely  at  times  when 
the  master  was  absent;  perhaps  she  felt  a  tender 
longing  for  her  bright  Nashville  home — a  home 
of  unusual  affection  and  charming  personalities. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.      95 

Aunt  Dice  was  considerate.  She  understood  the 
tender  look  across  the  river  and  up  the  long  lane 
that  stretched  its  way  toward  Nashville.  She 
interested  her  mistress  in  household  affairs,  in- 
structed her  in  the  secrets  of  the  dairy,  the  rais- 
ing of  fowls,  and  other  minor  duties  of  the  coun- 
try housekeeper.  Helen  Macy  was  a  happy  wom- 
an with  her  husband  and  children  about  her,  and 
frequent  glimpses  of  her  beloved  brother,  John 
Trevor.  Riverside  was  still  a  pleasant  home,  and 
not  without  its  comforts,  though  groaning  still  un- 
der the  burden  of  debt,  and  too  poor  by  far  to 
afford  her  the  luxury  of  a  piano,  or  even  her  fa- 
vorite books.  But  she  loved  the  smiling  river — 
blue,  dimpling  South  Afton ;  she  never  tired  of 
the  rugged  bluffs,  the  dizzy  cliffs,  clothed  and 
crowned  with  verdure;  she  loved  the  breezy  up- 
lands, the  distant  hills  sleeping  in  yellow  sun- 
shine ;  she  was  fond  of  the  old  house  with  its 
quaint  architecture,  its  cool,  wide  rooms:  she 
was  happy  at  Riverside.  "  I  am  really  think- 
ing, Sam.  of  wearing  print  gowns,"  she  said  one 
day.  And  print  gowns  she  wore,  even  to  the  crit- 
ical eyes  of  her  husband,  as  a  queen  "her  purple 
robe.'"' 

"Sing.  Helen,"  the  master  sometimes  said  as 
thev  sat  together  on  the  moonlit  gallerv:  and  Hel- 
en sang. 

The  negroes  crowded  to  their  cabin  doors. 
"  Hush!     Miss  Helen's  sinsnnV 

Aunt  Dice  listened  from  her  pleasant  back  gar- 


96  aunt  dice: 

den.  The  river  lapped  softly,  while  the  sweet, 
rich  voice  of  the  mistress  trembled  and  soared 
with  the  song  of  a  river  hardly  more  romantic  in 
scene  than  the  lovely  one  at  her  feet:  "Flow 
gently,  sweet  Afton."  The  old,  old  songs  rang 
full  and  clear:  the  music  of  "Convent  Bells"; 
the  lover's  old  son£,  "  When  the  stars  are  in  the 
quiet  sky  "  ;  and  "  Kathleen  Mavourneen."  The 
master,  whose  eyes  grew  stormy  under  "  Mary- 
land, my  Maryland,"  were  quiet  and  tender  when 
he  listened  to  a  glad  "  Gloria,"  or  "  Come,  ye  dis- 
consolate." 

The  new  mistress  found  in  Aunt  Dice  an  effi- 
cient help  in  dispensing  hospitalities.  With  her 
conservative  ways  she  was  a  pleasant  feature  of  so- 
cial gatherings  at  Riverside.  The  old  sideboard, 
with  its  array  of  decanters  and  sparkling  crystal, 
was  a  thing  of  the  past,  but  her  ingenuity  proved 
more  than  equal  to  its  loss.  It  was  her  pleasure 
to  plan  surprises  for  guests  or  afternoon  callers — 
to  spread  a  table  under  the  maples,  or  improvise  a 
dainty  lunch  on  a  tray  covered  in  spotless  linen, 
for  those  only  whom  she  favored.  If  she  felt  that 
Riverside  was  honored,  she  "  opened  her  heart"; 
otherwise,  she  was  significantly  silent.  Yet  she 
made  a  pathetic  picture,  bearing  in  her  trembling 
hands  these  offerings  of  old-fashioned  hospitality, 
these  testimonials  of  her  "family  pride."  The 
house,  too,  was  brightened  occasionally  with  fami- 
ly gatherings,  and  often  filled  to  overflowing  with 
the  children — Aunt  Dice's  "gran'chillun,"  as  she 


THE   STORY   OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  97 

called  them.  They  played  on  the  lawn,  waded  in 
the  shallows  of  the  river;  gathered  mussel  shells 
and  periwinkles  on  the  sand  bar;  "kept  house," 
and  played  "ladies,"  on  the  great  rocks  by  the 
"Branch."  They  swarmed  on  the  galleries,  up 
the  quaint  stairways,  and  peeped  fearfully  into 
the  depths  of  the  dark  "  scuttle  hole."  A  visit  to 
Aunt  Dice's  cabin  was  a  ceremonial  not  to  be 
overlooked ;  there  they  were  treated  to  the  same 
discipline,  the  same  grimaces,  contortions,  and  hu- 
miliating caricatures  that  their  mothers  were  of 
old,  to  say  nothing  of  the  open  cupboard  doors  as 
an  aftermath.  Valuable  lessons,  too,  they  learned 
in  that  humble  cabin;  one  of  which,  at  least,  was 
never  forgotten — to  "speed  the  parting  guest," 
a  maxim  which  finds  an  echo  in  many  a  hostess's 
heart.  "  I  must  go,  Granny,"  said  often  and  re- 
luctantly, brought  forth  from  her  the  wholesome 
advice:  "When  ye  say  'go,'  go.  Don't  palaver 
'bout  it."  A  form  of  good-by  which  certainly 
speeded  the  "  parting  guest." 

The  visits  of  these  grandchildren  Aunt  Dice  de- 
manded.  She  exacted  a  certain  amount  of  defer- 
ence due  her.  She  required  them  to  pay  their  re- 
spects to  her  at  stated  intervals,  a  duty  which  they 
were  not  loath  to  do;  but  "  'nought  of  a  thing 
wus  'nough,"  she  said.  "Time  you  chillun  wus 
gittin'  'long  home  now,"  she  would  command, 
after  a  protracted  stay.  When  they  pleaded  for 
one  day  more,  Aunt  Dice  was  firm.  In  spite  of 
the  protestations  of  the  mistress,  though  much  to 
7 


9S  aunt  dice: 

the  amusement  of  the  master,  who  knew  the  hold 
she  kept  upon  his  purse  strings  in  those  straitened 
times,  Aunt  Dice  ruled.  "Go  'long,  chillun" — 
be  it  whispered  once,  and  forever  relegated  to  the 
shades  in  the  interests  of  southern  hospitality ;  "go 
'long — Mos  Sam's  flour  barrel's  a  gittin'  low." 


.    CHAPTER  XIII. 

EECHWOOD  was  a  memory  only.  A 
cluster  of  tall  chimneys  told  where  the 
pleasant  mansion  had  stood,  while  grass 
and  weeds  grew  about  the  deserted  cabins.  The 
lands,  no  longer  a  family  possession,  were  divid- 
ed into  several  farms  under  enterprising  owners. 
Doctor  Trevor,  who  had  removed  to  the  village  of 

P ,  close   by,  owned   a  small  farm  within   its 

limits,  the  cottage  and  office  fronting  the  village 
street  or  pike.  "Vine  Cottage"  it  was  called, 
from  the  riotous  growth  of  vines — rose,  clematis, 
and  wild  honeysuckle — over  the  trees,  porches, 
and  fences.  In  front  ran  a  brooklet,  falling  across 
a  bend  in  the  pike,  forming  a  miniature  cataract, 
which  the  children  called  "Niagara  Falls" — in 
the  winter  only;  the  summer  found  its  dry  bed  a 
rich  field  for  a  playground. 

The  farm,  beyond  a  few  acres  in  cultivation, 
rounded  into  hills,  bristled  into  thickets,  or  gaped 
into  gullies — -another  convenient  plavground  for 
the  children,  provided  they  were  regardless  of 
clean  frocks  and  constitutionally  fond  of  clay  pies  ; 
a  farm  which  conveyed  less  than  half  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word,  and  left  a  rich  overplus  in  woody 
depths  and  dewy  dingles ;  in  thickets  musical  with 
birds  and  fragrant  with  wild  flowers:  in  orchards 
where  bees  hung  drowsilv  over  seas  of  pink  and 

(99) 


IOO  aunt  dice: 

white  bloom,  where  the  fruit  was  the  rosiest 
and  most  luscious;  in  gardens  where  big  red 
roses  ran  riot  over  squashes  and  melons,  of  the 
sweetest  and  best.  Morning-glories  gloried  in 
the  corn,  and  flung  their  purple  banners  from 
the  topmost  tasseling;  raspberries  ripened  along 
the  hillsides  and  narrow  paths;  dewberry  vines 
scrambled  over  gullies  and  ran  helter-skelter 
through  the  best  bottom  field,  bearing  their  lus- 
cious fruit.  The  old  beeches,  crowning  the  hill 
pasture,  were  the  shadiest  in  the  whole  country 
round;  while  the  willows,  fringing  the  stream- 
let at  its  base,  listened  to  a  musical  rhyme  never 
dreamed  of  by  the  farmer's  boy  who  plowed 
his  weary  way  on  the  opposite  hillsides.  Rural 
beauty  held  here  a  peaceful  reign ;  rural  sights 
and  sounds  were  undisturbed  by  the  hurrying 
bustle  of  busy  life.  Hawks  sailed  lazily  overhead  ; 
owls  brooded  in  hollow  trees ;  the  blue  heron 
dreamed  in  the  swamp ;  while  the  crows  cawed 
from  the  treetops  through  the  livelong  davs. 
The  spirits  of  the  woods — the  birds,  the  flowers — 
driven  from  the  carefully  husbanded  soil  of  the 
neighboring  hills,  gathered  here  for  a  continual 
jubilee,  and  sang  and  grew  and  sported  within 
their  wonted  haunts — the  leafv  coverts  of  Vine 
Cottage  farm. 

John  Trevor,  though  he  had  suffered  reverses 
during  the  trving  times  of  war,  and  was  struggling 
with  others  to  master  the  question  of  debt,  pos- 
sessed still  a  characteristic  buoyancy  and  hopeful- 


THE   STORY  OF  A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  IOI 

ness  of  disposition.  Busy  with  a  heavy  practice, 
and  his  wife  and  children  depending  solely  upon 
him,  he  was  still  a  "good  purvider,"  as  Aunt 
Dice  had  said.  She  never  had  cause  to  retract 
her  decision  of  his  faithfulness  and  worth.  Stone 
by  stone  he  had  built  an  honored  name  in  the 
place  of  his  adoption.  Older  heads  than  his 
looked  up  to  him,  and  steady  farmers  of  long  ex- 
perience and  varied  wisdom  looked  kindly  upon 
him  and  trusted  him. 

In  his  busy  life  he  had  little  time  for  his  wonted 
sports  and  pleasures.  Through  the  more  leisure 
month  of  May,  a  few  hours  spent  on  the  banks  of 
his  beloved  South  Afton  with  rod  and  line  was 
the  only  recreation  permitted  him  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end.  There,  while  the  soft  swish  of  the 
waters  against  the  rocks,  the  smiling  sky  over- 
head, the  calling  of  birds  from  the  fields,  rested 
and  refreshed  him,  he  lived  a  different  life  for  the 
time — something  apart  from  the  pill-making,  pre- 
scription-writing duties  of  workyday  hours. 

"  Mos  John'll  never  grow  ole,"  Aunt  Dice 
said;  "he  keep  his  heart  young."  All  that  she 
saw  lovely  and  beautiful  in  nature  she  called  his. 
The  blue  skies  and  sailing  white  clouds,  the  way- 
side flowers,  all  that  the  country  physician  saw 
and  noted  through  the  long  lanes,  bv  the  hill 
ridge  roads  or  the  dusty  pikes;  even  the  squir- 
rels that  chattered  from  the  trees  or  sported  along 
rock  walls  and  rail  fences — all  were  his.  "  Mos 
John's  martins  is  come,"   she   would  say  in  the 


102  AUNT   DICE: 

spring;  or,  "I  hear  Mos  John's  little  flute  bird," 
of  the  sweet-throated  thrush.  The  cooing  spring 
doves,  the  whistling  summer  partridges,  all  were 
Mos  John's.  "The  birds  is  singin'  fur  Mos 
John,"  she  was  wont  to  sav,  as  if  she  thought 
that  nature  knew  and  loved  her  own,  cr  that  the 
skies  smiled  more  sweetly  over  the  daily  walk  of 
one  beneath  who  was  so  earnest  and  true.  She 
began  to  watch  jealously  the  solitary  fisherman  by 
the  bluff  spring  in  the  spare  hours  of  the  May- 
time  seasons.  "  You'se  get  a  call,  Mos  John;  I 
hates  to  tell  ye,"  she  said  sometimes,  showing  her 
silvered  head  over  the  bluff.  "  'Pears  like  ye 
might  have  a  leetle  res'." 

"Never  mind,  Aunt  Dice,"  answered  the  coun- 
try phvsician,  cheerfully.  "  I  shall  take  a  trip  to 
the  mountains  some  time  in  the  near  future,  and 
for  two  whole  weeks  I  shall  rest  and  farget  all  the 
world  of  aches  and  pains." 

"To  be  sho'  ye  might,"  she  said.  The  far-off 
mountains  had  grown  suddenlv  interesting  to  her, 
since  they  held  in  reserve  a  rest  and  solace  for  the 
tired  physician. 

From  the  first  year  of  his  career  John  Trevor 
had  resolved  upon  this  little  recreation — two  long 
weeks  to  spend  upon  the  mountains,  among 
the  mountain  brooks  and  speckled  trout.  It  was 
a  picture  framed  in  his  mind  which  cheered  him 
often  by  the  lonely  wayside.  But  the  pleasant 
vision  flitted  before  him  like  a  mirage  of  the 
desert.     The   earnestness   of   his    profession    had 


THE   STORY   OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  IO3 

developed  through  sober  experience.     Resolutions 
formed  within  him  under  the  kindly  admonitions 
of   college  lecturers  had  grown  to  a  steady  pur- 
pose.    The  years  of  his  youth,  it  was  true,  had 
been  spent  mainly  in  the  upbuilding  of  his  prac- 
tice, in  overcoming  prejudices  against  his  inexpe- 
rience, and    perhaps   more   than   all  his  outcrop- 
ping progressive  ideas.     None  the  less,  too,  did  he 
know  that  he   had  run  the  gauntlet  through   the 
length  and  breadth  of  his  practice  in  matters  of 
religion,  morals,  and  politics;    in   which   he   was 
fairly   successful,   he  was    pleased  to   remember. 
His  modest  little  debt,  though  only  the  sum  of  a 
few   hundreds,  had   assumed   a  proportion  to  his 
income  which  caused  him  to  waken  occasionally 
at  night  and  stare  blindly  into  darkness,  trying  to 
conjecture  the  best  possible  mode  of  payment;  a 
problem  he  needed  not  to  have  considered,  were 
all  those  unpaid  accounts  which  accumulated  in 
his    office    desk    forthcoming.      Nevertheless,    in 
the  prime  of  his  manhood  he  contemplated  with 
some  pleasure  the  wide  bounds  of  his  substantial 
practice.     He  had  won.     He   had   paid  his   debt 
also,  laboriously  it  was  true,  dollar  by  dollar,  but 
freedom    was    all    the    more    grateful.     Still    the 
vision  of  mountain  brooks  and  speckled  trout  was 
yet  unrealized.     He  had  never  found  time  to  take 
his  recreation  of  two  long,  whole  weeks,  when  he 
was  to  forget  disease  and  all  its  unlovely  aspects. 
New   duties   crowded   upon  him,   new  calls  upon 
his    time    and    purse.     His    growing    family,    his 


104  aunt  dice: 

church,  his  people,  filled  up  the  measure  of  his 
busy  life.  Naturally,  there  were  divers  kinds  to 
please  among  his  people,  as  he  chose  to  call 
them:  some  who  were  shrewd  and  calculating, 
weighing  carefully  the  issues  of  life  and  death 
in  the  balance  with  the  doctor's  bill;  peremptory 
ones,  who  excused  no  time  or  circumstance;  and 
others,  though  few  in  number,  who  were  quick 
to  censure  and  slow  to  acknowledge  a  kindly 
deed.  But  the  friends  who  loved  and  trusted 
him,  these  were  they  whose  homes  were  his  rest- 
ing places  along  the  way;  within  whose  homes, 
too,  he  remembered,  he  had  done  his  most  val- 
iant battling  with  the  terror,  death.  Many  a  palm 
had  he  borne  aloft,  when  patient  and  nurse  fell 
into  line  with  him  against  the  foe. 

So  the  seasons  rolled  away  year  after  year,  and 
he  learned  with  their  changes  the  coldest  sweep 
of  the  windy  hillsides,  the  longest  lanes  of  the  hot 
summer's  sun.  Night  had  grown  as  familiar  to 
him  as  the  broad  light  of  day;  he  knew  its  sights 
and  sounds — the  shadowy  woods  and  cry  of  night- 
birds,  the  pale,  cold  moonlight,  the  solemn  stars. 
The  elements  kept  him  familiar  company — the 
whistling  winds,  the  shrouding  snow,  the  down- 
pouring  rain. 

Many  a  night  had  he  lifted  the  latch  of  the  little 
gate,  tired,  cold,  and  hungry;  but  never  too  tired 
or  cold  or  hungry  to  neglect  his  patient  horse,  the 
companion  of  his  journeyings.  As  was  natural  to 
his  profession,  he  was  a  careful  man,  and  conscien- 


THE  STORY  CF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.  105 

tious  in  the  smallest  detail  of  everyday  life.  The 
little  gate  was  carefully  latched,  the  stable  door  as 
carefully  fastened,  the  doors  and  windows  of  his 
home  tested,  the  kitchen  fire  inspected,  and  the 
andirons  turned  in  a  methodical  way,  before  the 
weary  physician  sought  his  couch — to  rest?  Per- 
haps, did  not  a  melancholy  "  halloo  "  arouse  him 
to  the  cold  fact  of  another  night  ride. 

Even  the  river  used  him  ill  at  times — his  be- 
loved South  Afton — when  she  wrapped  him  in  her 
chilly  mists  and  enveloped  him  in  her  fogs;  she 
dealt  him  treacherously  when  with  her  changeful 
fords  she  ingulfed  him  in  her  chill,  brown  waters 
and  gurgled  cruelly  about  him.  But  this  country 
doctor  had  grown  inured  to  hardships,  to  buffet- 
ing wind  and  weather.  He  was  a  happy  man, 
notwithstanding.  The  little  joys  of  life  had  kept 
his  nature  as  sweet  as  charity. 

He  loved  his  home.  No  ride  was  so  cold  or 
dark  that  he  did  not  see  in  perspective  a  lamplit 
table  crowded  with  books,  a  waiting  chair,  and  a 
welcome  as  warm  as  the  light  that  streamed  from 
its  windows.  A  steaming  supper,  with  many  a 
dainty  tidbit,  rewarded  his  tardy  home-comings. 

Man  and  beast  never  went  hungry  at  Vine  Cot- 
tage, it  was  said.  "  He's  de  bes'  hoss-moster  in 
dis  whole  kentry,"  said  an  old  darky,  referring 
to  his  fat  horses.  Not  only  so,  but  there  was 
never  a  motherless  chicken,  a  dethroned  king  of 
the  barnyard,  or  a  lamed  dog,  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  John  Trevor's  home  but  knew  him  for 


106  aunt  dice: 

their  friend.  Even  the  white  Maltese  cat  that 
yearly  reared  her  young  in  his  corncrib  received 
his  tenderest  care.  It  was  no  small  duty  to  feed 
and  tend  this  interesting  family  each  year — to  turn 
the  anxious  mother  in  and  out;  no  matter  how 
tired,  to  house  them  for  the  night;  but  this  he 
did  carefully,  almost  with  painful  exactness.  So 
when  the  prudent  housewife  disposed  of  Patsy 
and  her  kittens,  she  discovered  surprisedly  that 
her  husband  had  sustained  a  loss  which  amounted 
almost  to  an  affliction. 

With  John  Trevor's  natural  love  of  humor  it  is 
not  surprising  that  he  kept  in  store  many  a  coined 
and  polished  phrase  for  the  benefit  of  the  local 
wits  who  visited  the  village  store  front.  Many  a 
challenge  he  received  when  he  bared  his  head  to 
the  cool  shade  of  the  locust  trees  in  front,  many  a 
sharp  retort  did  he  send  to  the  comfortable  group 
on  the  store  porch — replies  so  quick  and  ready 
that  the  villagers  changed  their  quids  in  haste  for 
a  fresh  onslaught,  ere  the  steady  steps  of  the  doc- 
tor's horse  sounded  far  up  the  dusty  pike. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  this  country  physi- 
cian felt  a  weariness  in  his  limbs,  a  throbbing  in 
his  temples,  that  he  could  not  account  for.  A 
little  malaria  from  the  creek  bottoms,  he  argued; 
a  little  cold  from  continuous  night  riding — surely 
that  was  all.  He  bought  warmer  flannels  for  win- 
ter,  prepared  his  quinine  tonic  for  summer;  but 
suddenly,  despite  his  will,  and  verv  reluctantly  at 
last,  this  tired  physician  had  his  vacation:    not  on 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.  IO7 

the  breezy  mountain  heights,  or  under  the  quiet 
stretch  of  dim  pine  forests;  not  beside  the  cool, 
green  depths  of  mountain  brooks;  but  tossing  on 
a  sick  bed  in  weariness  and  pain,  with  restless 
hands  and  fevered  tongue,  he  babbled  of  crys- 
tal waters,  he  spun  his  reel  and  swung  aloft  his 
speckled  trout ! 

"  The  doctor  is  sick,"  the  neighbors  said.  The 
news  traveled  quickly  from  plain  to  hillside,  from 
hamlet  to  mansion  house.  Wine,  fruits,  and  flow- 
ers crowded  the  modest  home  of  the  sick  physi- 
cian; carriages  and  buggies  rolled  up  to  the  little 
front  entrance;  horses  and  braying  mules  were 
hitched  to  outstanding  posts.  The  poor  came 
toiling  over  the  hills  to  the  shadowed  home,  where 
they  listened  through  closed  doors  to  the  uncon- 
scious babbling  of  their  family  doctor.  Day  by 
da}'  they  gathered  and  turned  away  without  a  sight 
of  his  familiar  face  ;  day  by  day  they  crowded  the 
gallery,  the  adjoining  room,  the  front  lawn.  When 
the  first  uncertain  news  of  a  better  change  reached 
them,  they  stood  determinedly  before  his  door. 

"The  doctor — we  must  sec  him.'' 

"He  is  too  sick,  too  sick,'"  the  watchers  said. 
But  when  a  thin,  weak  voice  bade  them  enter,  they 
stole  in  quietlv,  solemnly;  content  to  grasp  his 
hand,  to  look  in  his  face,  and  pass  on. 

"  The  doctor  is  getting  well,"  they  said.  Then 
it  was  that  they  vied  with  one  another  in  kindly 
ministry,  and  with  strangely  tender  hands.  The 
doctor's  life  was  precious  in  their  sight. 


IOS  AUNT   DICE. 

John  Trevor  arose  from  his  sick  bed  to  a  newer 
life;  and  though  he  responded  to  a  peremptory 
call  with  weak-kneed  haste,  he  felt  that  there  was 
a  bond  between  him  and  his  people  that  he  could 
not  forget.  The  old  dream  of  mountain  brooks 
was  fast  slipping  from  him.  Theories,  too,  had 
vanished  from  his  mind.  Living  facts  he  dealt 
with.  Even  the  "  steady  purpose  "  which  strength- 
ened his  youth  had  long  given  place  to  daily 
deeds  and  busy  action.  The  souls  of  the  people 
were  dear  to  him.  It  was  not  always  of  ills  of  the 
body  that  he  talked  in  his  office,  but  of  spirit- 
ual needs  and  possibilities.  Though  the  long  lanes 
grew  hotter  in  summer,  the  hillsides  more  bleak 
in  winter,  and  his  tired  body  more  susceptible 
even  to  the  steady  jogging  of  his  horse,  when 
urged  to  remove  to  Nashville  by  a  brother  physi- 
cian of  precious  memory,  John  Trevor  was  reso- 
lute: "I  am  attached  to  my  people;  I  cannot 
leave  them." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


UNT  DICE'S  visits  to  Vine  Cottage  were 
frequent  in  the  days  of  peace  following 
the  war.  To  John  Trevor  her  companion- 
ship was  as  wholesome  as  in  earlier  days ;  always 
to  him  a  subject  of  fresh  interest  and  an  object 
of  honest  affection.  In  truth,  Aunt  Dice  exerted 
herself  to  be  agreeable  to  him,  in  which  she  suc- 
ceeded admirably,  being  wise  enough  to  know 
when  to  be  silent  and  when  to  be  amusing.  John 
Trevor  looked  forward  to  the  sight  of  her  silvered 
head  over  the  little  front  gate,  where  she  awaited 
his  return  from  a  hot,  dusty  ride.  Her  unobtru- 
sive ministry — her  offering  of  cool  water  dripping 
from  the  spring,  a  palm-leaf  fan  put  quietly  within 
his  hand,  his  slippers  laid  beside  him — he  noted 
gratefully.  With  what  a  delicate  perception  she 
said:  "Don't  chillun !  don't  tell  your  pa  he's 
got  a  call  no  sooner' n  he  comes  in;  let  him 
res'  fust."  All  of  which  the  overworked  physi- 
cian thoroughly  appreciated.  In  her  heart  she 
loved  Mos  John  next  to  her  own  dear  master, 
while  her  fondness  for  the  child  of  her  rearing — 
sweet,  patient  Anne  Trevor — grew  stronger  and 
dearer  as  the  years  slipped  by. 

These  visits  were  ever  seasons  of  rejoicing  to 
the  children,  though  Aunt  Dice  often  came  on  a 
tour  of  inspection.     It  was  no  common  occurrence 

(109) 


no  AUNT  dice: 

to  see  her  pick  up  a  handful  of  weeds  or  a  bit  of 
paper,  on  her  way  from  the  side  gate  to  the  back 
entrance  at  Vine  Cottage:  "It  looks  onsightly  in 
de  yard,"  her  first  greeting. 

"  Gethered  any  berries,  Miss  Anne?  "  she  asked 
once,  in  blackberry  time. 

Anne  Trevor's  negative  reply  called  forth  a 
happy  chorus  from  the  little  ones:  "Let  us  go 
with  you,  Granny!  " 

"  Git  your  buckets,"  ordered  Granny,  shortly, 
knocking  the  ashes  from  her  pipe. 

The  walk  to  the  thicket  was  pleasant  enough, 
wading  through  fresh  air  and  sunshine.  Mo^- 
over,  Granny's  drolleries  were  unusually  enter- 
taining; but  picking  berries  was  quite  another 
thing.  Granny  turned  a  stern  face  to  the  little 
flock  crowding  after  her.  "  I  don't  want  no  close 
neighbors.  Folks  can't  talk  an'  work  too.  Git 
yo'  patch,  an'^/c/-." 

That  long,  hot  afternoon  was  not  soon  forgot- 
ten.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  until  the  tin  pails 
were  filled.  The  slanting  sunbeams  fell  on  tired, 
flushed  faces  when  the  task-mistress  called  out 
cheerily:  "  Come  on,  chillun ;   le's  go  home." 

John  Trevor  renewed  his  old  habit  of  reading 
aloud  to  Aunt  Dice,  and  laughinglv  declared  that 
she  had  developed  into  quite  a  literary7  woman. 
Though  ofttimes  puzzled — which  caused  Anne 
Trevor  to  smile  pityingly  at  her  dark,  bewildered 
face — it  interested  John  Trevor  to  note  that  the 
elegant,  flowing  stvle  of  Irving  charmed  her;  that 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.     Ill 

Dickens  excited  her  to  a  quick  laugh  over  his  life- 
like protrayals  of  men  and  things  familiar  to  her; 
that  poetry  soothed  her.  But  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged that  John  Trevor  liked  best  to  read  to  her 
some  short,  stirring  romance,  and  over  the  book 
watch  her  distressed  face  when  the  hero  and 
heroine  were  toiling  through  the  mazes  of  the 
plot,  or  to  listen  for  her  relieved  "Thar  now!" 
when  all  ended  well  and  blissfullv.  Aunt  Dice, 
too,  might  have  noticed  a  suspicious  shaking  of 
the  book  and  a  certain  vibration  in  John  Trevor's 
voice  which  hinted  of  his  fun-loving  propensities. 
But  her  comments  were  worth  remembering.  Of 
fiction  she  understood  nothing;  they  were  real 
living  beings  in  those  books,  men  and  women  who 
sinned  and  suffered  or  lived  nobly.  "  He  mus' 
a  been  a  likely  man,"  she  would  say,  respectfully, 
of  some  character  who  had  patiently  suffered  and 
borne  his  burden.  A  life  of  self-sacrifice,  a  deed 
of  charity,  a  duty  faithfully  done,  caught  her  quick 
sympathy. 

"What  is  your  opinion,  Aunt  Dice?"  asked 
John  Trevor,  as  he  finished  a  well-known  book 
from  a  well-known  author. 

"Too  much  whisky,  Mos  John,"  she  said  de- 
cisively. "It's  a  drink  here,  and  a  drink  thar. 
More'n  I  ever  heerd  tell  of  in  ole  moster's  days, 
'pears  to  me.  Wine  an'  brandv'll  git  the  best  o' 
men,  if  they  tech  it  too  often."  The  cleaner  pages 
of  the  present  day  would  have  pleased  her.  The 
punch  bowl,  the  mugs  of  ale  and  beer,  so  pleas- 


112  AUNT   DICE: 

ingly  described,  were  odious  things  to  her.  "Whis- 
ky ruins  a  man,"  she  said.  Even  in  the  days  of 
free  distilleries,  Aunt  Dice  tasted  alcohol,  as  a 
medicine,  sparingly;   but  as  a  beverage,  never. 

Notwithstanding  her  objections,  Aunt  Dice's  re- 
spect for  books  was  great.  She  looked  upon  the 
knowledge  contained  in  them  almost  with  awe — a 
wonderland  to  her  that  she  never  hoped  to  explore 
— but  she  was  decided  in  her  opinion  that  they 
were  "  not  fur  niggers."  "  Book  larnin'  spiles 
a  nigger,"  she  ar<nied.     She  mifjht  have  thought 

&©       '  ©  ©  © 

differently  had  she  lived  to  this  day,  but  she  scored 
a  triumph  once.  Uncle  Billy  Barnes,  a  neighbor- 
ing "  cullud  gen'l'mun  "  of  some  property,  was 
quite  a  leader  among  his  own,  and  talked  educa- 
tion in  every  lane  and  byway,  when  not  engrossed 
in  earning  a  penny  or  turning  over  a  dime.  On 
an  occasion,  when  Aunt  Dice  was  enjoying  one  of 
her  visits,  Uncle  Billy  appeared  at  Vine  Cottage, 
his  favorite  market  place — for,  as  he  said,  "  the 
doctor  gives  livin'  prices  " — trundling  a  wheeibar- 
rowful  of  turnips.  Aunt  Dice  received  him  with 
some  deference,  smoothing  out  her  apron  in  a  dig- 
nified way.  Standing  by  the  fire,  turning  his  huge 
feet  to  its  warmth,  Uncle  Billy  discoursed  upon 
his  favorite  theme  in  broad,  Tennessee-negro  dia- 
lect: "Now,  who'd  a  thought  thar  wus  so  much 
in  books?  My  gals  kin  stump  me  enny  nite  outen 
dem  books.  My  darter,  Sally — you  knows  her — 
axes  me  t'other  nite,  '  Pa,  what  make  it  col'  in 
winter,  an'  hot  in  summer?'      Now,  you   knows 


THE   STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  1 1 3 

I  ain't  no  fool,  but  dat  wus  de  fus'  time  I  uver 
thought  of  sich  a  thing.  I  answers,  'I  dunno; 
what  you  know  'bout  it?'  So  she  sez,  *  De 
teacher  tol'  me — 'cause  de  sun  is  furder  off  in 
winter,  an'  closter  in  summer.'  Well,  dat  soun' 
reas'n'ble  to  me,  but  I  never  would  a  knowed  it  ef 
it  hadn't  ben  fur  books."  Uncle  Billy  pocketed 
his  fifty  cents,  took  up  his  worn  hat,  and  departed. 
"  Mos  John,  is  that  so?  "  asked  Aunt  Dice  sud- 
denly. 

John  Trevor  smiled:   "  Hardly,  Aunt  Dice." 
"  Thar !   I  tol'  you  a  nigger  couldn't  larn." 
Nevertheless,  Uncle  Billy's  daughter  Sally  earns 
a  handsome  living  now  teaching  school,   for  she 
learned  more  thoroughly  at  Fisk  University. 

Among  the  Trevor  children  Aunt  Dice  particu- 
larly "  favored"  the  eldest — a  growing,  winsome 
lassie,  with  riotous,  dark  curls,  delicate  scarlet 
lips,  and  clear  gray  eyes  much  like  John  Trevor's 
own,  and  much  like  him  in"a  sunny,  hopeful  dis- 
position, a  love  for  all  human  kind  which  charac- 
terized her,  and  a  tender  regard  for  all  dumb 
brutes.  "  You  are  like  your  father,  chile — jes'  as 
faithful,"  Aunt  Dice  would  say,  when  some  un- 
selfish action  brought  to  mind  the  much  beloved 
physician. 

Like  her  father,  Evelyn  was  fond  of  Aunt  Dice, 
and  spent  with  her  many  a  well-remembered,  hap- 
py hour.  That  Evelyn  was  a  studious  schoolgirl, 
Aunt  Dice  was  pleased  to  notice ;  and  many  an  ex- 
tra task  she  served  rather  than  disturb  those  hours 


114  aunt  dice: 

of  study.  '*  Let  the  chile  alone,"  she  would  say, 
when  Evelyn  was  called  upon  for  some  household 
duty.  "  Let  her  alone;  she's  got  a  book."  When 
Evelyn  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  hero  worship, 
she  tried  with  painful  earnestness  to  persuade  her 
dusky  colaborer  to  comprehend  with  her  the  vir- 
tues of  her  heroes.  In  this  she  was  not  so  suc- 
cessful. Aunt  Dice  did  not  call  those  valorous 
heroes  great.  She  had  her  own  ideas  of  true  valor 
and  worth.  Evelyn's  histories  puzzled  her.  She 
could  not  understand  the  ceaseless  battling  for 
power  and  earthly  renown — the  thirst  for  conquest, 
the  crime  and  intrigue  that  stained  the  centuries  in 
blood.  War,  to  her,  was  a  horrible  butchery.  She 
recognized  no  law  of  life  but  the  mighty  one  of 
peace  and  good  will — the  law  of  forgiveness  and 
loving-kindness.  "  Heavenly  wisdom,  chile,  is  bet- 
ter'n  all  that,"  she  said.  "Sol'mon  tol'  'bout  it 
often  'nough  in  the  Bible,  but  'pears  like  the  world 
ain't  learnt  it  yit." 

Still  Aunt  Dice  was  interested;  anything  within 
the  lids  of  a  book  interested  her,  however  much 
or  little  she  understood,  or  affected  to  ignore. 
"  Git  your  book,  Ev'lyn,  an'  read,"  she  said  fre- 
quently. 

On  an  occasion  during  an  hour  with  her  pipe, 
Aunt  Dice's  most  contemplative  mood,  Evelyn 
with  a  Life  of  Napoleon  in  her  lap,  read  to  her 
eagerly,  excitedly,  portions  of  the  life  of  the  Cor- 
sican  boy,  the  soldier,  the  general,  the  first  con- 
sul, the    emperor  and    conqueror,  and  the  great 


THE   STORY   OF  A   FAITHFUL    SLAVE.  II5 

prisoner  at  St.  Helena.     Aunt  Dice  smoked  her 
pipe  in  stolid  indifference. 

"Now  let  me  show  you,  Granny,"  said  Eve- 
lyn, reaching  for  her  geography  and  pointing  to 
pink  and  yellow  patches  on  the  map.  "  See  how 
many  countries — kingdoms — he  conquered." 

"  What'd  he  want  wid  so  many?  "  asked  Gran- 
ny, shortly. 

"Why,"  said  Evelyn,  hesitatingly,  "I  suppose 
he  wished  to  make  a  greater  conquest  than  Charle- 
magne or  Caesar  or  Alexander,  or  any  of  those 
great  men  I  read  you  about." 

"  He'd  a  better  let  well  'nough  alone,  then  he 
might  not  er  ended  in  jail." 

Evelyn  insisted:  "  But  say  he  was  great,  Gran- 
ny.    Do  you  not  think  he  was  a  great  man?  " 

Aunt  Dice  would  make  no  such  concession. 
She  turned  to  her  pipe  with  the  crushing  answer: 
"What  fur?" 

John  Trevor,  an  amused  listener,  took  up  from 
the  table  a  small  Bible.  "  Stop,  Evelyn.  You 
do  not  understand  Aunt  Dice.  This  is  her  Book 
of  books,  and  this  is  her  Hero  of  heroes,"  he 
said,  turning  to  the  twenty-fourth  Psalm,  and 
reading  in  clear  tones:  "  'Lift  up  your  heads,  O 
ye  gates;  even  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors; 
and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in.  Who  is  this 
King  of  glory?  The  Lord  of  hosts,  he  is  the  King 
of  glory.'^ 

Aunt  Dice  sat  erect,  her  smoking  pipe  forgotten 
in  her  hand.     There  was  a  flash  in  her  old  eves,  a 


Il6  aunt  dice: 

quiver  about  her  lips  as  if  they  struggled  for  utter- 
ance. But  the  power  of  language  she  could  not 
grasp.  A  silver  tongue  was  not  hers.  Perhaps 
ere  this  the  crippled  speech  of  the  grand  old  slave 
has  found  a  voice  for  eloquent  praise  before  her 
King  of  glory. 

John  Trevor  was  not  mistaken.  The  world's 
Redeemer  was  her  Hero,  her  King  of  glory.  All 
others  beside  him  were  poor  and  blind  and 
wretched.  All  the  worship,  the  adulation  within 
her  heart  she  laid  at  his  feet.  Perhaps  the  love 
of  the  wonderful,  so  inherent  in  her  race,  found 
vent  in  the  enthusiasm  of  her  imagination,  which 
vested  in  this  one  grand  character  all  the  at- 
tributes that  power  and  beauty  could  suggest. 
To  him  nothing  was  impossible.  He  was  the 
Mighty  One  of  all  the  ages,  everlasting,  omnipo- 
tent, supreme.  Lord  of  earth  and  sky,  Con- 
queror of  death  and  life,  he  rode  the  storm,  he 
soared  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind,  he  healed  the 
sick,  he  raised  the  dead.  In  him  was  centered  all 
that  loveliness  could  but  dream.  He  published 
the  doctrine  of  peace  and  forgiveness.  He  loved 
the  poor,  the  blind,  the  weak.  He  was  a  refuge 
for  the  wear}-,  the  heavy-laden.  He  gave  his  life 
a  ransom  for  the  world.  He  died  for  her — for  her. 
He  was  "  altogether  lovely,"  this  Lily  of  the  val- 
ley, this  bright  and  morning  Star,  the  "  chiefest 
among  ten  thousand,"  this  beautiful  One;  he  was 
her  Hero.  The  Bible  truly  was  her  Book  of 
books.     Of  her  Christian  character,  her  great  and 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.     II 7 

simple  faith  was  the  prominent  trait.  She,  who 
scorned  an  exaggeration,  accepted  the  Bible  liter- 
ally. She  rejected  none  of  its  mysterious  figures, 
whose  sublime  conceptions  she  little  understood. 
"The  mountains  skipped  like  rams,  and  the  little 
hills  like  lambs,"  she  commented  upon  with  a 
childlike  faith,  beautiful  to  behold:  "  If  the  Bible 
say  so,  it  inns'  be  so." 


CHAPTER  XV 


VELYN  TREVOR,  always  a  favorite  with 
Aunt  Dice,  spent  many  a  pleasant  hour  at 
Riverside.  It  was  often  her  privilege  to 
visit  the  old  homestead,  and  it  was  ever  a  time  of 
joyous  expectancy,  when  the  blue  hills  of  South 
Afton  came  into  view,  and  the  venerable  old 
beech  by  the  ford  trailed  its  branches  in  the  river 
with  a  gurgling  welcome.  Then  the  venturesome 
plunge  into  the  clear  freestone  waters,  the  grat- 
ing of  wheels  on  the  graveled  drive,  the  rush  and 
baying  of  the  hounds  at  the  great  double  gate, 
and  the  welcome  figure  of  Aunt  Dice  coming 
across  the  lawn,  her  hands  folded  behind  her,  her 
bare  head  silvery  in  the  sunlight,  all  were  happy 
experiences  not  to  be  forgotten. 

The  charming  mistress,  the  master,  whose  smile 
always  gladdened  the  hearts  of  John  Trevor's 
children,  received  her  with  affectionate  regard. 
The  old  home,  with  the  familiar  surroundings  cf 
Anne  Macy's  childhood,  had  for  Evelyn  a  pecul- 
iar interest.  The  bright,  changeful  river  alwavs 
charmed  her.  The  slow-waving  cedars  of  the 
cemetery  impressed  her  solemnly.  The  house 
held  its  attractions:  the  cunning  little  rooms  back 
of  the  galleries,  painted  in  pure  white;  the  pale- 
yellow  walls  of  the  dining  room,  hung  still  with  the 
(118) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.     IIO, 

portraits  of  Winfield  Scott  and  Zachary  Taylor; 
the  ample  fireplace  and  brass-knobbed  andirons; 
the  antique  sideboard,  which  now  did  duty  of  a 
more  substantial  kind. 

Evelyn  spent  hours  by  the  quaint  old  book- 
case, which  contained  volumes  of  history,  heavy 
works  of  astronomy  and  chemistry,  Latin  gram- 
mars and  books  of  mathematics,  religious  works, 
prayer  books,  poetry,  and  curious  fiction.  Evelyn 
handled  them  tenderly,  reading  on  the  fly  leaves 
faintly  legible  but  familiar  family  names.  The 
old-fashioned  paper  on  the  parlor  walls,  an  indis- 
tinct pattern  of  grayish,  wavy  lines  and  trailing 
roses;  the  great  four-posted  bedstead  which  stood 
in  state  in  the  best  bedchamber,  with  its  imposing 
canopy,  a  marvel  of  mahogany,  silk,  and  lace,  Ev- 
elvn  felt  could  belong  to  no  other  so  charmin<jlv 
as  to  the  pleasant  old  mansion  at  Riverside. 

The  dark  "scuttle  hole,"  too,  had  a  curious 
interest  to  her:  within  its  gloomy  recesses  Aunt 
Dice  had  hidden  the  bedding  and  family  valua- 
bles during  the  war.  Now  the  old  clock,  which 
had  been  removed  from  the  dining  room,  stood 
here,  staring  still,  with  a  white,  dismaved  face,  as 
when  its  tones  had  been  rudely  hushed  under  hos- 
tile hands. 

War-time  memories  were  growing  indistinct  to 
Evelyn ;  already  the  days  of  slavery  seemed  far 
away  and  dim.  Her  remembrances  were  those  of 
a  little  child,  but  its  saddest  chapters  she  now  re- 
called  as  an  unpleasant  dream :    not  onlv  the  dav 


120  AUNT   DICE: 

when  her  mother,  brave  Anne  Trevor,  coolly  gath- 
ered her  eggs  under  guard  and  pointed  bayonet 
of  a  blue -coated  negro  soldier;  the  dark  days 
when  her  father  lay  in  Franklin  jail,  a  prisoner 
of  war;  the  sad  farewells  when  all  the  slaves, 
weeping  and  wailing,  departed  forever;  but  the 
dull  suspense  of  the  gloomy  time,  the  days  of 
want  and  privation — the  musty  meal  and  sugarless 
parched  rye  coffee. 

Other  things  Evelyn  remembered  not  so  un- 
pleasantly. There  were  merry  gatherings  around 
the  table,  and  merry  comments  on  the  uncertain 
flavor  of  uncertain  dishes — the  results  of  her 
mother's  ludicrous  attempts  at  cooking.  There 
were  exciting  incidents  of  Yankee  raids  and  reb- 
el feasts  at  Vine  Cottage.  On  one  occasion  she 
stood  on  the  lawn  with  her  mother  and  Julia,  the 
nurse,  watching  with  interest  a  squad  of  flving 
rebel  horsemen  and  a  dozen  or  more  Yankees  in 
full  pursuit. 

Anne  Trevor's  blue  eyes  flashed.  Verily  she 
had  about  her  just  then  a  look  of  Mos  Sam  him- 
self. 

"  Open  the  gate,  Julia;   let  them  come  in." 

Julia  flew  to  open  the  gate.  The  rebels  passed 
through  with  a  yell  of  triumph. 

"Leave  the  gate  open!"  shouted  the  leading 
Yankee. 

"Shut  it,  Julia!" 

"Leave  it  open!"  he  commanded,  with  raised 
pistol. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  121 

"Shut  it,  Julia!  "  cried  brave  Anne  Trevor. 

Julia  shut  the  gate  quickly,  amid  the  threaten- 
ing oaths  of  the  bafTled  leader,  and  thereby  consid- 
ered herself  a  martyr  to  principle,  and  heroine  of 
the  war. 

But  Evelyn  could  never  forget  when  she,  a  lit- 
tle child,  sat  upon  the  knee  of  a  Federal  officer, 
and  wondered  that  one  in  the  objectionable  blue 
uniform  could  look  so  kindly  upon  her,  and  stroke 
her  hair  with  such  tender  hands,  as  he  said,  sad- 
ly: "You  are  very  like  my  own  little  daughter." 
Evelyn  still  hoped  that  he  lived  to  see  his  "  own 
little  daughter"  again;  and  she  regretted  sorrow- 
fully that  wiser  heads  than  hers  had  not  settled 
the  questions  of  the  war  peaceably,  so  that  all 
this  bloodshed  mi^ht  have  been  avoided. 

Her  mother's  former  slaves — Eliza,  Julia,  and 
Pet — now  occupied  part  of  the  old  quarters  at 
Riverside.  Eliza  was  much  the  same,  quiet  and 
earnest,  almost  as  faithful  as  Aunt  Dice;  Julia 
was  still  strong  and  comely,  full  of  fun  and  spir- 
its; but  Pet — still  a  very  spoiled  pet — was  a  "  fine 
lady,"  a  development  of  her  short  stay  in  Nash- 
ville and  her  late  freedom.  Her  husband,  a  val- 
uable farm  hand,  worked  early  and  late  to  pro- 
vide her  with  all  possible  comforts  and  to  keep 
her  in  idleness. 

Evelyn  went  out  to  the  quarters  one  sunny  morn- 
ing to  find  Pet  reclining  her  ample  figure  in  a 
chair  by  the  cabin  hearth,  and  sipping  her  nine 
o'clock  coffee. 


122  AUNT  DICE.* 

"Why,  Pet,  we  have  breakfasted  hours  ago," 
said  Evelyn,  amused  at  the  "fashionably  late" 
breakfast. 

"  Yo'  see,  Miss  Evelyn,"  Pet  said,  complacent- 
ly, "Joe  don't  want  me  to  git  up  early.  I  has  a 
smoth'rin'  in  my  breas'  uver  mornin',  an'  I  don't 
have  to  wuk  hard  nohow.  Joe  takes  his  meals  at 
de  hous',  an'  I  gits  de  chillun  a  little  some'n  to  eat, 
no  sooner'n  I'm  rested,  an'  has  my  coffee  ready. 
I  ain't  'bleeged  to  wuk,  yo'  know.  Joe  gits  fifteen 
dollars  a  mont'." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  doing  well,  Pet,"  said  Eve- 
lyn, kindly.  From  her  earliest  remembrance  she 
had  ever  had  an  unreasonable  fondness  for  saucy, 
good-natured  Pet. 

"  Yessum,  Miss  Ev'lyn,  Joe  g'wine  to  be  rich 
fo'  long,  an'  he  say  I  shan't  wuk  no  mo'  'tall.  Dat 
ain't  all  nuther.  He  g'wine  to  buy  me  a  sewin' 
m'chine.  an'  a  red  silk  dress,  an'  shoes  wid  gol' 
heels  to  'um." 

Evelyn's  clear  eyes  wandered  from  the  unkempt 
bed  to  the  ash-strewn  hearth,  where  two  small 
boys  sopped  their  bread  and  molasses  from  tin 
plates,  their  bacon  and  gravy  from  an  iron  skillet, 
back  to  the  worn  cotton  gown  whicli  Pet  spread 
grandly  about  her. 

"  You  will  be  a  fine  lady,  Pet,"  smiled  Evelvn. 

"  Oh,  yessum;  Joe  say  I  got  ter  be.  He'll  buv 
me  a  car'idge  some  day,  an'  de  red  silk  dress,  an' 
de  gol'-heel  shoes — " 

"Bronze-heeled  shoes,  do  you   mean?"  asked 


THE   STORY   OF  A  FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  123 

Evelyn,  puzzled.  She  remembered  a  childish  ad- 
miration of  hers  for  her  mother's  negro  women, 
when  dressed  in  their  smart  Sunday  gowns — 
silks,  muslins,  merinos — gowns  of  a  season's  wear- 
ing, bestowed  indulgently  upon  them.  She  glanced 
again  at  Pet's  soiled  cotton  gown. 

"  How  can  you  have  those  things  at  Riverside, 
Pet?" 

"Lor'  bless  you,  Miss  Ev'lyn!"  exclaimed  lo- 
quacious Pet, "  we  ain't  g'wine  terstav  here.  We's 
g'wine  ter  Nashvul.  Country  don't  'gree  wid  me. 
'Sides,  money  can't  keep  me  here,"  she  contin- 
ued, whimperingly;  "  dis  place  is  sho'ly  ha'nted. 
Somebody  g'wine  to  die  here  soon.  De  screech 
owels  is  hollerin'  in  de  grabeyard,  an'  dat  mak' 
me  knows  it.  Dey  screeches  an'  screeches  up 
dar;  den  dey  lights  on  de  hous',  an'  somebody 
got  ter  go." 

Evelyn  listened  dreamilv.  Riverside  was  haunt- 
ed, the  negroes  said.  Strange  sounds  were  heard 
on  the  stairways  of  the  "white  folks'  house"; 
familiar  faces  looked  forth  from  its  windows. 
The  tall  clock  tolled  from  the  jrarret,  and  iihost- 
ly  figures  trod  the  long  galleries.  At  night  the 
scraping  of  fiddles,  the  ringing  of  clevis  pins,  ac- 
companied by  the  measured  beat  of  heavy  feet, 
sounded  from  the  old  quarters'  kitchen.  Uncle 
Amos  sang  from  his  cabin,  while  the  little  negro 
boy  who  was  drowned  in  the  river  sported  with 
his  dog  on  its  waters.  Riverside  was  haunted; 
the  negroes  were  "  boun'  ter  go." 


124  aunt  dice: 

"Don't  lis'n  to  her,  Ev'lyn.  Pet  talks  like  a 
fool,"  said  Aunt  Dice  suddenly  from  the  door- 
way. 

Evelyn  followed  Aunt  Dice  to  the  old  loom 
house,  where  she  tended  a  brood  of  chickens,  and 
looked  curiously  over  the  relics  of  slavery  days: 
a  spinning  machine,  turned  with  a  crank  and  roll- 
ers; spinning  wheels,  reels,  and  cards;  a  cunning 
little  flax  wheel,  and  the  ponderous  loom  which 
stood  with  silent  shuttles  in  a  corner.  Aunt  Dice 
answered  Evelyn's  questions  patiently. 

As  said  before,  Aunt  Dice  was  a  woman  of 
few  words.  Her  sentences  were  short  and  deci- 
sive. An  intelligent  question  she  answered  plain- 
ly, concisely;  a  bright  remark  she  received  with  a 
pleased  "  Thar  now,"  which  kept  one  on  the  hunt 
for  brighter  ones;  but  one  of  her  keen,  searching 
looks  was  the  only  answer  vouchsafed  a  silly  ques- 
tion. 

"What  is  this,  Granny?"  asked  Evelyn,  lift- 
ing a  corner  of  a  large  fishing  net,  spread  over  the 
loom  to  dry. 

"A  seine,  chile;   a  seine." 

Evelyn,  reared    in  her  dry  little  village,  knew 
nothing  of  fishing-  tackle  or  the  technicalities  of 
the  art. 
'  "Why,  how  can  one  man  manage  all  this?" 

"  One  man  don't  manage  it.  Some  gits  on  one 
side  o'  the  river,  some  on  t'other—" 

"  But,  Granny,  I  don't  understand." 

Granny  glanced  at  Evelyn  sharply,  and  started 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.     1 25 

in  a  steady  trot  for  her  cabin.  Evelyn  followed. 
Though  conscious  of  a  greatly  deplored  ignorance, 
she  determined  to  try  Aunt  Dice's  patience  to  the 
uttermost:  "Granny,  do  explain,"  she  ventured 
boldly. 

Granny  turned  suddenly:  "  I  putty — near. — de- 
spise ye!" 

Then  they  stood  together  in  the  pleasant  morn- 
ing sunlight,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
laughing  in  perfect  good  humor. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

UNT  DICE  was  crowing  old.  This  she 
did  not  show  in  looks.  Her  eyes  still 
held  their  fire,  and  her  face  had  few 
wrinkles.  There  was  no  querulousness  in  tone  or 
manner,  no  childishness  in  speech  or  action.  The 
broad  sweep  of  her  brow  was  still  smooth  and 
placid,  for  she  was  never  wont  to  corrugate  her 
forehead  in  useless  frowns.  Her  carefully  brushed 
hair  still  had  its  silvery  sheen,  but  her  strength  was 
perceptibly  fading.  Her  low  figure  seemed  a 
little  more  squat  and  short.  Her  rough  hands 
trembled ;  her  massive  chin  quivered  and  ap- 
peared to  hang  slightly,  which  gave  the  effect  of 
a  double  chin;  "  a  sign  of  age,"  Aunt  Dice  said. 
She  had  little  to  do ;  came  and  went  as  she  pleased, 
and  spent  much  of  her  time  visiting  the  sick  and 
poor,  with  whom  her  name  was  a  household  word. 
At  Riverside  she  was  content.  Her  social  visits 
were  noticeably  shorter,  as  if  she  would  fain  have 
hurried  back  to  the  cool  quiet  of  her  beloved 
home.  "  'Pears  like  I  can't  stay  nowhar,"  she 
would  apologize.  "  I'm  gittin'  a  fool  'bout  home." 
The  children  of  her  dear  master  she  caressed  and 
dandled  upon  her  knees,  or  treated  them  occa- 
sionally to  the  wholesome  discipline  of  their  fa- 
ther before  them,  though  with  greater  leniencv, 
natural  to  her  age.  The  eldest  she  would  admon- 
12G) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.     1 27 

ish  frequently:  "  You've  got  Mos  William's  name, 
son;   min'  how  you  han'le  it." 

John  Trevor,  the  second,  whose  clear-cut  face 
had  the  same  proud,  sweet  look  of  his  mother, 
Aunt  Dice  had  sometimes  to  uphold  when  the 
imperious  William  proved  too  domineering.  But 
the  youngest,  a  tender,  delicate  girl,  white  and 
pure  as  a  star-e}Ted  daisy,  Aunt  Dice  held  upon 
her  bosom  with  an  anxious  care,  as  if  she  feared 
that  the  angels  had  loved  this  one  too  well. 

The  days  passed  by,  days  that  were  blessed. 
Aunt  Dice  was  reaping  the  fruits  of  her  well-spent 
years.  Among  all  her  acquaintances  she  bore  an 
honored  name,  and  by  her  white  friends  was  treat- 
ed with  distinguished  courtesy.  Wherever  known 
she  was  never  forgotten.  Strangers  remembered 
her.  A  missionary  in  far-off  Brazil,  who  had  spent 
a  short  week  at  Vine  Cottage,  wrote  to  John 
Trevor:  "  Remember  me  to  Aunt  Dice;  I  do  not 
forget  her."  It  is  needless  to  add  that  among  all 
her  "  children"  and  "grandchildren"  she  was  very 
highly  honored  and  beloved. 

In  all  her  long  life  Aunt  Dice  had  but  one  glimpse 
of  the  world  and  its  way — an  unfavorable  one  truly, 
within  the  walls  of  Nashville's  courthouse.  Sum- 
moned as  a  witness  in  a  trial  for  murder — a  strange, 
new  duty  for  her  seventy-four  years — she  prepared 
to  answer  the  call,  after  many  instructions  from  the 
master.     She  donned  her  best  bonnet  and  srown. 

"Don't  get  confused,  i\unt  Dice,"  cautioned 
the  mistress. 


128  AUNT  dice: 

"  I  ain't  never  done  nothin'  to  be  'shamed  of 
that  I  knows  on,"  she  replied  bravely. 

Though  it  required  some  courage  to  meet  this 
demand,  Aunt  Dice  proved  equal  to  the  occasion. 
It  was  learned  that  she  caused  jnany  a  smile  in 
the  court  room  by  her  droll  expressions,  her  caus- 
tic wit,  and  commanded  the  gentle  respect  of  the 
judge  himself  when  she  bared  her  white  head  to 
the  defendant's  lawyer:  "  Do  ye  see  my  gray 
head?  Do  you  think  I'd  tell  a  lie  f  "  ■  After  this 
there  was  no  more  "cross-questioning." 

When  her  duty  was  done  the  judge  spoke  to  her: 
"Aunt  Dice,  with  whom  do  you  stay?  " 

"I  b'longs  to  Cap'n  Macy,  suh— Mos  Sam," 
she  answered  quickly. 

"Jfos  Sam?"  he  questioned,  smiling.  "  Would 
you.  feel  free  enough  to  come  to  Nashville,  if  I  of- 
fered you  good  wages  and  a  comfortable  home?" 
"  Thanky,  suh,"  she  rejoined  proudly.  "  I  don't 
'ceive  wages,  an'  I  wouldn't  leave  Mos  Sam  for 
all  the  comf'ble  homes  in  Tennessee." 

As  might  be  expected,  Aunt  Dice  came  home 
from  Nashville  brimful  of  news.  Her  trip  to  the 
courthouse  was  an  amusing  theme  for  many  a  day 
after.  She  interested  her  friends  by  her  original 
sketches  of  strange  sights  and  the  grotesque  mim- 
icry of  the  characters  she  met,  in  which  the  de- 
fendant's lawyer  was  least  flattered.  Of  the  judge 
she  spoke  respectfully,  a  sign  of  her  high  regard. 
"He  wus  a  well-mannered  man,  a  p'lite  genT- 
mun,"  she'said.     "  I  made  him  my  bes'  curt'sy." 


THE   STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.  120, 

Her  "  curt'sy  "  was  a  low  bow,  which  brings  a 
smile  to  remember.  The  downward  sweep  of  the 
body,  the  outspread  palms,  the  backward  step, 
were  ungracefully  executed;  but  the  effect  of  her 
earnestness  and  pride  was  stimulating,  if  nothing 
more. 

In  summing  up  the  qualities  of  Aunt  Dice,  the  * 
superiority  of  her  character  above  the  average  ne- 
gro is  apparent.  She  was  an  exception,  in  many 
respects,  even  from  the  talkative,  superstitious,  but 
time-honored  "black  mammy,"  who  has  earned 
her  place  in  the  hearts  of  the  southern  people. 
Aunt  Dice  had  few  equals  among  her  kind.  Her 
faults  she  had,  doubtless,  but  they  do  not  live  to 
reproach  her  memory.  With  her  progressive 
mind,  her  broad  intellect,  her  intelligence  and 
wonderful  accuracy  of  judgment,  it  is  impossible 
to  say  what  she  might  have  been  had  she  lived  at 
the  present  time.  The  progress  of  the  world  in 
peace  and  good  will,  in  Christian  philanthropy 
and  excellence,  would  have  pleased  her  much, 
though  it  is  interesting  to  imagine  what  her  opinion 
would  have  been  of  the  bloomer-costumed,  strong- 
minded  woman.  She  would  perhaps  have  turned 
rather  to  the  straisht-han<rin£  skirts  and  soft  mus- 
lin  kerchief  of  the  old-time  woman,  who  did  not 
ape  the  manners  and  dress  of  the  stronger  sex. 
Aunt  Dice  would  have  been  pleased  to  see  also,  in 
many  instances,  the  upbuilding  and  outgrowing  of 
mind,  capability,  and  worth  in  her  own  race  and 
people.  But  she  served  well  her  day  and  genera- 
9 


130  aunt  dice: 

tion.     Many  under  more  promising  circumstances 
have  done  less. 

Much  more  could  be  told  of  her  deeds  and  say- 
ings during  her  seventy-five  years  of  toil  and  ear- 
nest endeavor.  Perhaps  the  numerous  "grand- 
children," everyone  of  whom  looked  first  into  her 
dusky  face,  could  each  tell  a  story  of  her  love  and 
faithfulness. 

It  had  been  a  special  wish  of  Aunt  Dice's  to  see 
born  to  John  Trevor  a  son;  but  it  was  only  after 
long  years  of  waiting  that  her  wish  was  gratified. 
Daughter  after  daughter  had  she  taken  from  the 
mother's  side  and  laid  in  his  arms — all  of  whom 
he  gathered  tenderly  to  his  heart;  but  when,  in 
her  seventieth  year,  she  placed  in  his  lap  a  real 
kicking  boy,  with  a  pleased  "Thar  now,  Mos 
John,"  the  father's  smile  was  not  prouder  than  her 
own.  "John  Willlian  "  she  named  him — a  homely 
name  enough,  but  one  that  meant  much  to  her. 

It  was  four  years  later,  during  one  of  her  last 
social  visits  to  Vine  Cottage — a  visit  grown  sacred 
now  with  the  memory  of  it — she  sat  with  this  rosy- 
cheeked  boy  in  her  lap.  A  pretty  picture  it  was: 
the  boy  of  four  vears  playing  with  his  white  terrier, 
Roy,  at  his  feet:  the  gray-haired  nurse,  with  one 
toil-worn  hand  on  his  knee — pleasant,  dignified, 
not  one  whit  childish  or  peevish  in  her  old  age. 

"John,"  asked  his  father  suddenly,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye — "  mind  you  think  well,  my  son — which 
one  do  you  love  best,  Aunt  Dice  or  Roy?  " 

John  lifted  a  pair  of  earnest  eyes  to  Aunt  Dice's 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.     131 

homely  face,  looked  down  at  the  dog  who  wagged 
his  tail  knowingly,  and  answered,  "  Roy." 

"That's  right,  chile;  tell  the  truth,"  said  Aunt 
Dice,  in  no  wise  ruffled. 

But  the  visits  of  this  faithful  nurse,  the  sight  of 
her  well-known  figure,  her  dear  companionship, 
were  soon  to  be  no  more  at  Vine  Cottage.  The 
days  crept  by — days  that  were  golden.  The  sea- 
sons waned  slowly,  as  if  loath  to  leave  the  quiet 
landscapes.  The  sun  rose  and  set,  kissing  the 
river  in  a  myriad  dimples,  slanting  in  long  golden 
bars  through  the  maples,  silvering  the  whitened 
harvest  fields  at  Riverside  and  gilding  the  hazy 
November  woods.  The  eight  long,  bright  years 
closed  in  darkness,  nevermore  to  be  lifted. 

The  mistress,  lovely  in  her  life,  lay  down  in  death 
after  a  short  week's  illness,  and  Riverside  was  des- 
olate !  Nay,  more ;  all  South  Afton  mourned  for 
one  who  had  lived  among  them  so  jjraciouslv, 
whose  memory  yet  lingers  amid  the  sunlit  hills 
and  quiet  vales  as  the  perfume  of  a  flower  crushed 
in  its  bloom.  Aunt  Dice  went  about  with  a  still 
face,  trving  to  be  as  brave  in  her  old  age  as  in  the 
davs  of  her  strength. 

When  the  family  friends  arrived  from  Nashville 
they  found  the  house  in  quiet  keeping,  as  in  the 
presence  of  death.  The  severe  plainness  of  the 
table  where  coffee  and  bread  were  served,  the 
noiseless  tread  of  servants,  the  solemn  stillness, 
betokened  the  faithful  management  of  Aunt  Dice, 
who  knew  what  was  befitting  and  seemlv. 


132  aunt  dice: 

After  the  lovely  mistress  was  laid  away  among 
the  myrtles  of  the  cemetery,  Aunt  Dice's  health 
visibly  declined.  For  a  year  she  bore  up  bravely 
against  a  malignant  disease,  striving  to  be  house- 
keeper  and  mother  to  the  children,  striving  with 
all  her  might  to  bring  back  the  force  of  her  young- 
er days,  the  steady  step  of  her  prime.  Not  a  sor- 
rowful fight  this  seemed,  but  a  cheerful  struggle, 
even  with  occasional  glimpses  of  her  old,  gro- 
tesque humor,  which  was  the  chief  charm  of  her 
youth.  Above  all,  there  was  a  sublime  faith  in  an 
all-wise  Creator,  who  was  able  both  to  make  and 
unmake,  to  give  and  to  take. 

On  her  last  solemn  visit  to  Anne  Trevor,  with 
the  shadow  of  death  upon  her,  it  was  her  daily 
habit  to  take.up  the  family  Bible,  lay  it  reverently 
in  the  lap  of  some  one  to  read  aloud,  while  she  lis- 
tened gravely,  a  peaceful  look  in  her  dear  old  eves, 
so  soon  to  see  in  his  beauty  the  One  she  had  fol- 
lowed so  humbly. 

It  was  John  Trevor's  duty  to  tell  her  of  her  in- 
curable illness.  She  received  the  news  quietlv, 
saving  with  cheerful  emphasis:  "Well,  I  can't 
'spect  to  live  alius.  Death  is  a  sho'  thing."  She 
sat  in  silence  for  awhile;  then,  as  if  the  dawning 
of  a  new  day  had  broken  in  upon  her  soul,  she 
said  slowlv:    "  I'll  soon  see — Mos  William." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


ITH  all  her  indomitable  will,  and  the  sad 
fact  that  Mos  Sam  needed  her  sorely, 
the  end  of  the  year  found  Aunt  Dice 
bedridden;  but  withal  the  year's  end  found  her 
determined.  She  was  to  spend  her  last  days  with 
Charley — "  Mos  Sam  had  trubble  ernuff." 

This  was  perhaps  the  second  and  last  mistake 
of  her  life ;  but  what  fortitude  and  self-sacrifice 
this  decision  called  for,  none  can  judge.  In  spite 
of  her  long  years  of  active  service,  Aunt  Dice 
could  not  reconcile  herself  to  be  ministered  unto 
by  her  white  people.  The  sight  of  her  master 
standing  over  her  at  night  troubled  her. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Aunt  Dice?"  he 
would  ask,  when  the  thought  of  her  kept  him 
awake . 

"A  little  water,  Mos  Sam;   then  go  to  bed." 

That  long,  cold  winter  was  a  sad  experience. 
The  stricken  master,  with  the  care  of  his  mother- 
less ones,  often  sought  her  cabin  at  midnight  hours 
to  find  her  deserted  by  her  hired  nurse,  keeping 
her  uncomplaining  watch  alone.  He  built  her 
fires,  administered  her  medicine,  brought  her  cool 
water  from  the  great  bluff  spring — no  longer  the 
willful,  imperious  master,  but  the  strangely  gentle, 
patient  nurse. 

(133) 


134  aunt  dice: 

Evelyn  Trevor,  who  rode  over  often  during  the 
Christmas  holidays,  looked  in  one  day  upon  a 
touching  scene.  The  old  servant  lay  tossing  on  a 
bed  of  pain,  talking  wildly,  deliriously,  the  result 
of  a  neuralgic  affection  of  the  brain — a  reflex 
action  of  the  deadly  tumor.  "  The  cotton  fiel's 
white;  stir  'em  up,  Caesar;  don'  let  Mos  William 
fin'  'em  'sleep.  Be  lively,  boys;  daylight's  burn- 
in'  !"  cried  the  sufferer,  in  the  old  imperious  tone, 
followed  by  a  moaning,  "  Mos  Sam,  you're  ruined, 
you're  ruined!"  or  quieting  suddenly,  "Hush! 
Miss  Helen's  sing-in'." 

The  master  leaned  over  the  hearth,  warming 
a  bran  poultice.  Evelyn's  heart  ached  as  she 
watched  his  bowed  figure,  the  big  salt  tears  that 
rolled  from  his  careworn  face  dropping  silently 
on  the  unconscious  brow  of  the  sufferer. 

Under  Dr.  Trevor's  prompt  treatment  Aunt  Dice 
was  relieved,  her  reason  restored,  and  she  gained 
strength  so  rapidly  that  she  bade  Evelyn  a  cheer- 
ful good-bv  from  the  cabin  door  when  the  holi- 
days were  ended. 

The  long  winter  passed.  Aunt  Dice  made  ar- 
rangements for  her  final  departure.  All  the  lov- 
ing service  and  tender  care  of  a  grateful  family 
were  offered  her;  still  Aunt  Dice  was  resolute. 
Not  even  the  protestations  and  entreaties  of  her 
beloved  master  availed.  To  Charley  she  would 
go,  leaving  one  request — to  be  buried  near  Caesar, 
at  Riverside ;  a  sunny  slope  of  the  cemetery  over- 
looking'   the    river,   which    her    kind    old    master 


THE    STORY   OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  1 35 

himself  had  chosen  as  her  last  resting  place, 
where  the  golden  candlesticks  she  had  planted 
bloomed  and  burned  in  the  early  spring.  One 
should  prefer  to  order  the  ending  of  this  story  as 
in  fiction,  to  frame  the  picture  fittingly.  But  Char- 
ley came  for  his  mother  one  bleak  day  in  March 
— quarrelsome,  dictatorial  Charley,  who  was  more 
careful,  it  was  said,  of  her  numerous  bedquilts  and 
the  wonderful  bureau  with  glass  handles  than  of 
her  precious  sick  body. 

*'  Good-by,  Mos  Sam;  take  keer  yo'se'f  "  ;  and 
a  black,  trembling  hand  reached  forth  from  the 
covered  "express." 

The  last  link  was  gone  that  bound  the  strick- 
en  master  to  Riverside.  Her  empty  cabin  stood 
desolate.  No  homely  advice,  no  cheering  word 
or  caustic  rebuke,  no  sound  of  her  steady  step! 
Her  work  was  done.  The  master  was  alone — 
the  happy  home  no  more.  The  lonely  call  of  the 
river  tortured  him.  Never  again  would  the  flash 
and  smile  of  her  dimpling  waters  soothe  or  charm 
him!  Never  for  him  the  full,  free  breath  of  the 
rolling  uplands,  the  billowy  sweep  of  gold  !  With 
the  light  of  his  home  and  the  hopes  of  his  youth, 
the  glorious  beauty  of  Riverside  had  departed,  to 
return  nevermore.  The  tender  green  of  spring,  the 
wanton  beauty  of  the  summer,  though  the  mock- 
ing bird  in  the  maple  poured  out  his  heart  in 
melody  for  the  love  of  it,  were  never  for  him 
ajjain.  Riverside  was  but  the  ""rave  of  his  buried 
hopes.     Restless  and  unhappy,  he  sold  his  inherit- 


I36  AUNT  DICE. 

ance  and  wanaered  abroad,  with  the  moaning  cry 
of  the  river  still  lingering  in  his  ears. 

In  Nashville  the  whereabouts  of  Aunt  Dice  soon 
ceased  to  be  known.  The  ne^ro  habit  of  flitting 
hither  and  thither  in  the  hurrying  quest  for  bread 
and  shelter  soon  left  her  friends  no  trace  of  her. 
Rumors  drifted  occasionally  in  an  uncertain  way 
from  the  noise  of  the  city:  Aunt  Dice  was  better, 
was  walking  about,  was  in  bed  again ;  but  only 
once  a  message,  more  like  a  despairing  cry:  "  Tell 
Mos  Sam  I'd  die  happy  fur  one  mo'  sight  of  his 
face."  Perhaps  it  was  well  that  she  did  not 
know  that  her  master  was  away  and  her  beloved 
Riverside  in  the  hands  of  strangers.  In  her  self- 
banishment,  one  could  but  imagine  the  change  for 
the  proud  old  negress.  For  years  accustomed  to 
cleanly  and  wholesome  surroundings,  she  was  vet 
in  her  old  age  to  realize  the  filth  and  squalor,  the 
uncertain  maintenance  of  real  negro  life.  Then 
the  busy,  bustling  city;  the  ceaseless  passing  back 
and  forth,  the  strange  sounds  breaking  in  upon  the 
weary  exile,  whose  ears  had  been  for  fortv  years 
tuned  to  the  soft  lapping  of  her  loved  South  Afton  ! 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


VELYN  TREVOR  sat  within  her  pleas- 
ant room  at  a  boarding  house  in  Nashville, 
holding  in  her  hands  a  letter  with  a  well- 
known  signature,  a  sweet  conceit:  "Your  dear 
father,  John  Trevor." 

Through  the  open  window  the  February  winds, 
drifting  from  the  sunny  uplands  of  Riverside,  from 
the  hillside  playground  of  Vine  Cottage  farm,  lift- 
ed the  curls  from  her  brow  and  stirred  the  ruffling 
of  her  dainty  gown,  whispering  of  the  spring's 
glad  coming.  Her  books  lay  unopened  at  her 
side.  Nine  o'clock  would  find  her  on  her  way  to 
Nashville's  Seminary  for  Young  Ladies;  still  she 
sat  looking  far  away  over  the  western  hills,  think- 
ing— thinking  over  the  letter  she  held  in  her 
hands.  The  classic  shades  of  Locust  Grove  Acad- 
emy, the  school  of  her  earlier  days,  were  to  her 
now  only  dear  memories.  The  free  or  public 
schools  had  crowded  out  this  modest  hall  of 
learning,  where  the  schoolmistress  and  principal 
moved  with  queenly  grace  among  her  satellites — 
assistant  and  music  teachers. 

Evelyn  could  not  remember  whenever  this  wise, 
firm  mistress  had  failed  in  look  or  word  to  encour- 
age her  inquiring  mind,  or  to  smooth  a  difficult 
step.     She  could  not  remember  during  those  four 

(137) 


I^S  AUNT  dice: 


o 


long  terms  a  neglectful  breach  of  courtesy  from 
preceptress,  or  a  failure  to  reward  the  smallest 
favor  by  a  bow  and  smile  or  gentle  thanks.  Yet 
what  a  steely  grip  in  those  delicate  hands !  A 
look  was  a  command;  a  slight  tremor  of  her  chin, 
an  ominous  warning;  but  her  smile,  lighting  up 
the  compass  of  her  strong,  intellectual  face,  was 
worth  many  an  hour  of  laborious  effort.  Evelyn 
felt  sometimes  that  she  could  have  reached  any 
height  whither  this  smile  might  have  led. 

Not  without  danger  of  "  cramming,"  she  peeped 
into  science,  pored  over  history;  she  read,  com- 
posed, and  copied;  she  transposed  and  analyzed 
sentences,  reaching  to  Milton's  intricate  verse; 
but,  sad  to  sa}*,  she  stumbled  continuously  over 
the  dull  problems  of  her  arithmetic.  Neverthe- 
less, duty  was  pleasant  here.  There  were  "  ser- 
mons in  stones";  flowers  were  ruthlessly  pulled 
apart  and  dissected;  the  use  of  globes  made  her 
geography  an  easy  studv;  and  she  learned  that  the 
stars  were  not  mere  golden  things,  studdincr  the 
sky  for  glory  and  beauty. 

To  please  her  fancy  more,  the  surrounding 
groves  and  lanes  of  the  academy  were  peopled 
with  airy  forms  from  her  own  mvthology.  Flora 
smiled  from  the  garden;  Pomona  showed  her  rosv 
face  from  the  depths  of  the  orchard ;  dolphins 
sported  in  the  miniature  lake ;  while  farther  down 
a  charming  bit  of  landscape,  where  the  streamlet 
gurgled  over  rocks  and  eddied  into  pools,  there 
was — ah   ves  ! — Sevlla  and   Charvbdis.     Over  the 


THE   STORY  OF   A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  1 39 

brow  of  the  hill  the  great  god  Pan  himself,  not 
dead — oh  no  ! — played  his  pipe  where  the  wild 
grapes  grew. 

But  this  February  morning  Evelyn  was  not 
dreaming  of  the  well-remembered  haunts  of  Lo- 
cust  Grove  Academy,  nor  was  she  longing  for  the 
dewy  dells  of  her  country  home;  but  her  thoughts 
were  far  beyond  the  western  horizon,  where  the 
rippling  waters  of  dear  South  Afton  caressed  the 
rugged  bluffs  at  Riverside.  In  a  cabin  door  she 
saw  a  short,  squat  figure;  a  homely  face,  with  kind 
old  eyes  that  looked  a  sad  good-by  at  parting. 

"  Now,  'member,  chile,"  Aunt  Dice  had  said, 
"tain't  all  to  larn  in  schoolin'  an'  books.  Ef  yo' 
is  a  lad}-,  yo'll^'o  with  ladies,  an"1  genTmuns." 

These  words  were  useful  to  Evelyn.  She  had 
not  forgotten.  She  read  her  father's  letter,  her 
eyes  growing  dim  over  the  words,  "  Look  for  Aunt 
Dice,  and  bring  her  home;  we  think  she  is  in  dis- 
tress." 

All  day  at  school  the  babbling  of  sweet  South 
Afton  sounded  in  Evelyn's  ears;  all  day  a  dark, 
homely  face  smiled  from  the  pages  of  her  book. 
At  her  earliest  hour  she  started  on  her  quest,  only 
to  return  at  nightfall  weary  and  disappointed. 

Of  Aunt  Dice's  granddaughters,  all  of  whom 
had  some  years  before  removed  to  Nashville,  Eliza 
was  the  only  one  living.  Pet — poor  spoiled  Pet — 
had  indulged  her  love  of  finery  to  her  heart's  con- 
tent at  the  "second-hand"  stores,  but  died  all 
too  soon  for  the  "car'idge  an'  hosses,"  and  the 


140  aunt  dice: 

"shoes  wid  gol'  heels."  Evelyn  had  seen  Julia 
once  only.  When  passing  down  the  street  with  a 
friend  she  heard  a  frantic  voice  calling  behind  her, 
"  Miss  Ev'lyn,  O  Miss  Ev'lyn!"  Evelyn  turned 
in  surprise  to  see  Julia — no  longer  the  comelv 
Julia — kneeling  at  her  feet,  gathering  up  the  skirt 
of  her  gown  and  kissing  it  passionately.  Julia, 
too,  was  soon  laid  away  in  the  colored  burying 
ground  at  Mt.  Ararat.  Eliza  was  still  in  Nash- 
ville;  but  where,  Evelyn  could  not  tell,  owing  to 
the  varying  life  of  the  colored  poor. 

Next  day  after  school  hours  Evelyn  resumed 
her  search  from  street  to  street,  tracing  painfully 
the  whereabouts  of  the  changeful,  flitting  Char- 
ley. He  had  gone  "  furder  up  town  " — on  "t'oth- 
er side  o'  the  riber"  ;  and  lastly,  "He  ain't  here; 
he's  moved  som'r's  'long  o'  Front  street." 

On  the  third  day's  search  Evelyn  passed  down 
an  ill -smelling  allev,  and  knocked  at  the  ffrimv 
door  of  a  basement  room.  Entering,  she  noticed 
a  group  of  noisy,  dirty  children ;  recognized  slow- 
ly the  wrinkled  remnant  of  Charlev's  wife,  Maria; 
then  her  quick  eyes  saw  in  the  opposite  corner  a 
narrow  iron  bedstead,  which  she  knew  to  be  Aunt 
Dice's — on  which  the  honored  servant  of  River- 
side had  been  wont  to  take  her  afternoon  naps. 
Passing  quicklv  to  the  dark  corner,  she  knelt  bv 
the  bedside,  where  lay  a  shrunken  figure,  who 
passed  one  withered  arm  around  Evelyn's  neck, 
while  the  bed  shook  with  her  silent  grief. 

"  Dear  Grannv!  "    Words  were  weak.     Evelvn 


THE   STORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  SLAVE.  I4I 

could  only  hold  the  rough,  fevered  hand,  or  pass 
her  cool  fingers  over  the  throbbing  temples. 

Aunt  Dice  grew  quiet  at  length:  "  How's  Mos 
Sam?" 

"  He  was  well  when  we  heard  from  him  last — " 

"  Mos  John  an'  Miss  Anne?" 

"All  well,  dear  Granny;  we  only  want  you." 

Aunt  Dice  lay  silent  for  awhile.  Evelyn  stroked 
her  hand,  which  twitched  nervously. 

"  Ev'lyn,  tell  Mos  Sam — not  to  sen'  me — any 
mo'  money." 

Evelvn  hesitated.  She  understood  the  old  re- 
serve.  Aunt  Dice's  private  griefs  had  always 
been  respected,  but  surely  in  her  helpless  old  age 
she  might  share  her  griefs  for  once.  "  Tell  me 
why,  Granny.     Tell  me  why." 

"I  never  .see — de  money." 

"  Grannv,  never  mind  the  monev.  I  have  come 
for  vou.  You  shall  go  home  with  me  at  the  close 
of  the  week.  That  is  day  after  to-morrow.  They 
are  waiting  for  you  at  home.  You  will  come?" 
pleaded  Evelyn. 

Aunt  Dice  lifted  her  face  with  a  new  interest. 
She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow.  "  It  mus'  be 
lookin'  fresh  an'  cool  at  Mos  John's.  Yes,  I'll 
Co — ef  I  kin."  She  looked  toward  the  dark  door- 
way.     "Ain't  the  grass  comin'  out?  " 

"  Yes,  Grannv;  spring  is  waiting  for  you  at 
home,  at  dear  Vine  Cottage." 

"  Yes,  chile."  Eternal  spring  was  waiting  for 
her.     Evelyn  sank,  sobbing,  by  her  bed.     Aunt 


142  aunt  dice: 

Dice  put  out  her  thin,  wrinkled  hand.  "  Don't, 
Ev'ryn,  don't  take  on  so.  Yo'  Granny  is  nuther 
afeard  ter  die  nur  ter  live.  I'm  mo'  comf'ble  than 
ye  knows  of,"  she  continued.  "  Riah  does  de 
bes'  she  knows  how,  an'  Liza  brings  me  things 
ter  eat,  an'  keeps  my  bed  clean." 

"But  you  will  go  with  me,  Granny?"  asked 
Evelyn,  opening  her  basket  and  piling  her  fruit, 
rolls,  and  coffee  about  the  bed. 

Aunt  Dice  turned  restlessly,  and  passed  one 
hand  wearily  over  her  face.  "  Mebbe  so,  Ev'lyn 
— -ef  nuthin5  don't  happen." 

"What  can  happen?"  asked  Evelyn,  cheerful- 
ly. "You  will  get  well  at  Vine  Cottage,  with 
dear  mother  and  the  girls  to  nurse  you."  After 
a  fond  good -by,  she  closed  the  door  and  hastened 
homeward. 

Next  day  at  school  it  was  not  the  babbling  of  the 
river  in  her  ears;  not  the  vision  of  a  stout,  low 
figure  in  a  cabin  door;  but  a  dark,  shrunken  form 
in  a  dark  corner  beckoned  to  her  sadly. 

On  the  following  Saturday  Evelyn  stood  again 
at  the  basement  door,  staring  blankly  at  the  de- 
serted room.  Charley  had  flown  again,  no  one 
knew  whither.  Evelyn  turned  away  in  sore  dis- 
appointment. What  was  the  meaning  of  Aunt 
Dice's  reticence  about  the  "money,"  her  hesi- 
tating acceptance  of  a  home  at  Vine  Cottage? 
Could  it  be — oh  no,  surely  it  could  not  be — that 
Charlev  used  her  monthly  pittance,  and  smug- 
gled her  sick  body  back  and  forth  across  the  city, 


THE   STORY   OF.  A   FAITHFUL   SLAVE.  I43 

that  no  communication  pass  between  her  and  her 
friends  I 

Another  search  was  instituted.  There  was  a 
season  of  suspense,  an  unavoidable  delay  of  sev- 
eral weeks,  when  John  Trevor  found  Eliza,  and 
learned  that  Aunt  Dice  had  passed  away  at  Eli- 
za's home,  and  not  with  Charley,  for  whom  she 
had  borne  so  much. 

Just  here,  while  the  pen  may  be  ready  to 
censure,  the  heart  prompts  a  feeling  of  lenien- 
cy for  the  wayward,  mistaken  Charley.  That  he 
was  Aunt  Dice's  son  precludes  a  hasty  judgment. 
Were  she  here  to  plead  for  him,  she  would  per- 
haps find  some  trait  of  character  worthy  of  her 
son;  some  charm  of  manner  or  person,  some  re- 
deeming quality  that  others  know  not  of.  That 
he  loved  her,  she  did  not  doubt.  He  was  her 
own,  her  son.  Let  Charley's  failings  be  forgot- 
ten, now  that  he  sleeps  quietly  at  last  by  his 
mother's  side,  after  the  "  fitful  fever"  of  his  err- 
ing but  unfortunate  life. 

Aunt  Dice  was  tended  with  care  and  devotion 
b}-  faithful  Eliza,  who  secured  the  privilege  bv  re- 
nouncing all  claim  to  her  grandmother's  posses- 
sions. Aunt  Dice  died  in  peace.  She  was  laid 
away  in  her  plain  coffin,  robed  in  her  black  silk 
gown,  with  the  lace  shawl  pinned  about  her;  and 
in  the  early  spring,  when  the  golden  candlesticks 
were  aflame  around  Caesar's  grave,  when  the 
laughing  waters  of  her  native  river  danced  and 
rippled  in    the   spring   sunshine,   Aunt    Dice,  the 


144  AUNT   DICE. 

faithful  slave,  the  beloved  servant,  was  lowered 
into  her  grave  on  a  bleak  slope  of  Mt.  Ararat, 
within  sound  of  the  city's  roar  and  tumult. 

It  was  also  learned  that  Aunt  Dice  was  very  pa- 
tient through  all  the  dreary  days  of  her  illness, 
very  quiet  and  "  peaceful-like,"  waiting  in  simple 
faith  the  time  of  her  departure;  for  the  reunion 
with  those  who  had  gone  before,  whom  she  had 
loved  and  served  so  faithfully.  But  a  fairer  One 
she  saw,  perhaps,  than  any  of  earth  she  had 
known,  when  in  her  dying  moments  she  lifted  a 
radiant  face  and  said,  "  Glory — glo-r-y!  " 


rjg|  Bridgeport  National 
^^  Bindery,  Inc. 

SEPT.  2000 


